World's end

Chapter Twelve

Sunlight drenched the streets of Glastonbury and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of honeysuckle and lemon. The sky overhead had been as blue as the brightest summer day since Ruth, Laura and Shavi had nursed the van into town, shattered by the rigours of their pursuit by the Wild Hunt. The temperature had remained unseasonably balmy, without the briefest hint of rain or a chill on the wind.

"It doesn't seem right," Ruth said, trying on the cheap sunglasses she had bought after browsing in the proliferation of New Age shops. She glanced up, trying to reconcile the weather with the time of year.

"Don't knock it." Laura was impassive behind her own sunglasses.

"It's more than just the weather," Ruth continued. "There's something in the air. Can't you feel it?"

"Peace," Shavi interjected.

"For the first time since we set off from London, I feel safe. It's like there's a bubble over the place, protecting it from everything that's out there. Smell all those scents! There doesn't seem to be any pollution at all. And the air almost seems to … sparkle? Like there's gold dust in it."

The mood was reflected in the open, smiling faces of the people who passed by, nodding to the three of them as if they had always lived there. The residents moved slowly, lazily, gazing into the shop windows, ambling across the road, heedless of the slow-moving traffic.

"Glastonbury has always been seen as one of the most magically powerful places in the country," Shavi noted. "For hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, people have been drawn here by the supposed power in the land. Celts and Christians, hippies and New Age Travellers. It is supposed to be on one of the longest ley lines in the country, running from St. Michael's Mount in Cornwall, through Glastonbury, Avebury and on across the country to East Anglia."

"You seem to know a lot about all this."

He smiled curiously. "When I was six years old I had a map on my wall with all the ley lines drawn on in red felt tip. When I was ten I had read every book ever written about the subject, from Alfred Watkins' The Old Straight Track to the latest scholarly journal. I branched out from that into reading about Buddhism, Taoism, Islam. In my head it all seemed linked." He shrugged. "Where does all that come from in a child?" He already seemed to know the answer to his question.

Ruth had a sudden sense of great wisdom in his eyes. "So you think there's something in all this ley line stuff?" she ventured.

"There are plenty of people ready to pour scorn on it, as there are for anything which is difficult to categorise, compartmentalise, measure and define. But you have seen the blue fire." Ruth nodded. She remembered the look of almost childlike wonder on his face when she described it to him as they dropped off the van at the garage for repairs. "If only I could have seen it too," he continued dreamily.

"You will. The visible evidence of it is all part of this new age, so it seems."

"Did you know," he said thoughtfully, "that ley is an old Anglo-Saxon word, but it has an older, obsolete meaning, of flange or fire? Our ancient peoples knew more than we give them credit for. Interestingly, there is also a well-established ley linking Stonehenge and Glastonbury-"

"Yes, very interesting," Laura interjected, "now how about getting some food? At least with a full stomach I can sleep through all your ramblings."

Ruth refrained from making any comment; there was plenty of time for Shavi to reach his own judgment about Laura.

They had pitched camp in a copse on the outskirts, but they needn't have worried about secrecy. They had been discovered by the farmer who owned the land within the hour, but he cheerily wished them well and continued on his way. The feel of the sun on their faces was a relief after the endless storm and the terrifying night and they had lain outside their new tents against a fallen tree, trying to come to terms with what had happened. It soon became apparent they had no idea what they were going to do next. Ruth wanted to head back to Dartmoor to search for Church, but while Laura didn't want to abandon him, she felt it was both futile and dangerous. Ruth tried to call the pub from her mobile, but the line was dead. In the end, they resolved to rest a while in Glastonbury while they recovered, hoping that some plan would present itself to them.

They wandered around until they found a cafe, the Excalibur, where Shavi and Laura had the vegetarian option of tomatoes on toast and Ruth opted for bacon and eggs. They felt more refreshed than they had any right to; whatever strange atmosphere now permeated Glastonbury seemed to be healing both their psychological scars and their exhaustion.

Afterwards, they dozed for a while in the sun, catching up on the previous night's deprivation, and then they explored the town, drinking in the unique atmosphere of ancient history that seemed to permeate every street. It didn't take Ruth and Laura long to get to know Shavi. He was unguarded in a way few others were, answering every question they had for him without a hint of embarrassment or reticence; his openness seemed to make Laura particularly uneasy, and she spent the first two hours trying to catch him out, to prove he was lying to them.

He was brought up in a tight-knit family in west London, and although his father had adopted most western ways since he came to the UK to study medicine in his twenties, Shavi had still had a strict upbringing when it came to the traditions and religion of his family. Shavi's interests had soon taken him well away from his heritage, throwing him into conflict with his father almost daily. As he progressed into his teens, his father's fury at his rebellious ways had threatened the stability of the family and, once he turned sixteen, he was forced to leave home.

Ruth was aghast at the blase way he mentioned such a period of upheaval. "Didn't it bother you at all?" she asked.

"I shed tears for my family every day," he replied, "but what could I do? Remain in a life I had no empathy for, pretending to be someone else? The only option was to be true to myself, whatever price I had to pay."

His life after leaving his family seemed to have been an odd mix of hedonism and spiritual questing. He freely acknowledged experimenting with various drugs, and, at Laura's prompting, admitted a healthy sex life fired by curiosity. Yet at the same time he had an insatiable thirst for knowledge, particularly of a spiritual and philosophical kind. "If I indulged in self-analysis I would admit to trying to fill some kind of void," he said, "but it is more important to me to follow my instincts to see where they take me."

Laura was curious about a small scar above his top lip, the only blemish on his perfect features; they were both surprised at the downcast expression her question elicited.

"It happened two years ago. I was with a boy in a club in Clapham," he began. "The Two Brewers. It was quite renowned in London as one of the top gay clubs-"

"You're gay?" Ruth instantly regretted her exclamation; it sounded faintly bigoted, the way she said it, although she certainly hadn't meant it that way. "It's just, you don't seem gay."

"I put no boundaries around my life. I have had men and I have had women." He smiled forgivingly. "Anyway, the Two Brewers had a reputation as the kind of place you could go without encountering any of the trouble you would find in the more unenlightened parts of the capital. The boy I was withLee was his name-had been a very close friend for many years. We had a good night, got a little high, plenty of dancing. When we left in the early hours we thought we'd go for a walk on Clapham Common to look at the stars. It was a beautiful night. We were walking down one of the side streets towards the common when the mood took us to stop and kiss." He closed his eyes, remembering; at first his face was tranquil, but then a shadow flickered across it. "Somebody hit me, hard." He tapped the scar. "I think it was a gun, or perhaps a piece of piping-it is very hard to remember. I think I blacked out for a while. When I came to, Lee was struggling with someone further down the street. I called out, tried to get to him, but I was so dazed."

When he opened his eyes, they were wet, but he made no attempt to hide the emotion. "My vision was fractured-I had concussion-but I could see the man attacking Lee. He was swinging something down on his head. The crack sounded like a piece of wood snapping in two. But even then he did not stop. He kept hitting, and hitting." He closed his eyes once more. "Lee died. His murderer got away. I cannot even remember what he looked like."

"I'm so sorry." Ruth rested a comforting hand on his forearm.

Laura was just as moved by the story. "What a homophobic bastard! If I found out who it was, I'd cut off his dick and shove it down his throat."

Shavi raised his hands and shrugged. "I have done my best not to let it scar me emotionally as well as physically, but it has been difficult. I try to tell myself there is enough hatred in the world without me adding to it."

His honesty created a bond with them both; it was impossible not to trust him completely. Ruth found herself almost hypnotised by him. His voice was so calm, it made her feel tranquil, and his eyes were both mischievous and intensely sexual. His body had a graceful power, like a ballet dancer, compact, with muscles she had not expected to see in someone so cerebral. She had watched him performing his t'ai chi after they had awoken from their nap and she had almost cried to see him so at peace with himself. She was glad he was with them.

Despite herself, Laura felt the same way. Shavi's confidence in his abilities and direction in life was reassuring to someone who felt as if her own existence had been spinning off its axis for most of her adult life. In the disparate crew so far assembled, Shavi felt like the cement that would hold them all together. It gave her secret hope that it might, after all, turn out okay.

"We need to get you some clothes," Church noted as they rested in the wan sunlight on the lea of an outcropping of grey Dartmoor granite. He felt much better. Tom had found some foul-tasting roots and leaves which had taken the edge off much of the pain and tiredness he had felt following his ordeal in Calatin's torture chamber. Ahead of them, a large fox picked its way cautiously across the scrubland, its russet fur a splash of colour against the grubby green. Church had a sudden flashback to the one he had seen in the street near Albert Bridge on the night his life changed forever. Oddly, he did not have the same sense of wonder.

"No hurry. It's not like it's winter." Veitch did seem oblivious to the elements, despite his naked torso. In daylight, Church couldn't stop looking at the startling, colourful pictures tattooed on his flesh. Some were scenes of remarkable beauty, but others were almost too disturbing to consider: deformed faces that looked out at the viewer with a palpable sense of threat; odd, surreal shapes that seemed alien and unrecognisable, but touched disturbing notes in his subconscious; creatures that seemed half-animal, half-human.

Tom scanned the sky thoughtfully where a little blue was breaking through the heavy cloud. "The weather should be fine," he noted almost to himself before adding to the others, "It will make travel a little easier. We may have a long way to go before we can rest."

"We need to find Ruth and Laura." Church fought back any thoughts suggesting they might not have survived the raid on the pub.

"Have you not learned anything yet?" Tom glared at Church through his spectacles, which, against all the odds, he had somehow managed to hang on to throughout the time in the mine. "Time is of the essence! Your world is winding down and you want to dally searching for your friends? You are Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. You will find each other when the time is right."

Veitch bristled at the man's tone. "Oi. Nobody made you the gaffer. Keep a civil tongue in your head."

Tom held his gaze for a minute, then looked to the horizon. Finally he hauled himself unsteadily to his feet and said, "There are many miles ahead of us."

They set off slowly across the moorland, enveloped by the moan of the wind and the plaintive cries of birds. The going was hard; the ground was uneven and marshy after the rains, while hidden hollows and boulders forced them to be cautious. The lamp was still flickering westwards, and Church wondered how far they could be expected to travel without a car. At the rate they were moving, Beltane would come and go before they left Dartmoor.

"Any idea what the date is?" he asked. "I can't work out how long we were in that place. The lack of daylight plays havoc with your body clock." No one had any idea.

Church noticed Tom was eyeing him strangely and asked what was wrong. "You seem different from the last time I saw you," he said. "More in control of who you are. You might actually be able to live up to what's expected of you."

"Thanks," Church said sarcastically. He even felt different; the vision in the Watchtower, the death of the young Marianne, his terrible experiences at the hands of Calatin, all had altered him on some fundamental level. He himself was still coming to terms with who he now was.

"So, you still haven't told us what it was like in that Otherworld place," Veitch said to Tom.

"No, and I'm not about to."

"Why not?" Veitch said with irritation; Church was a little concerned at how close to the surface his temper lay.

"Because it would be like describing an impressionist painting to a blind man."

"Are you saying I'm stupid?" Veitch's fists bunched subconsciously.

"No, I'm saying you're blind. But perhaps you'll see it for yourself one day, and then you'll understand."

That thought seemed to cheer Veitch immensely. "That would be bleedin' great! I bet it's better than this shitty little world."

"Different," Tom replied sourly.

Amidst regular ribald humour from Veitch, their step picked up and as the sky turned blue and the sun grew stronger, the miles fell behind them. After the disgusting food in the mine, they were all consumed with hunger and by midmorning they broke off their travelling to hunt for food. Tom did one of his tricks and returned with a couple of rabbits, and while they were cooking over a spit on the fire he pointed out various herbs for Church to collect and had Witch grubbing for tubers and mushrooms. It was a bizarre meal, half of which Church couldn't begin to recognise, but it tasted remarkable and they finished every scrap. After a brief nap in the shade of an ancient hawthorn tree, they continued on their way and soon the grim, bleak expanse of the moor gave way to budding trees and hedgerows and, eventually, a tiny, winding lane. With sore feet and aching muscles, they moved slowly, searching for any signs of civilisation.

An hour or so later they found a small farm surrounded by a thick wall of trees. At first glance it seemed deserted; a tractor and equipment sat idle in the yard at the back of the house and there was no sound apart from the mewling of a litter of kittens underneath a broken old cart. After hammering futilely on the door, Church and Veitch searched the outbuildings until Tom's cry called them back to the farmhouse. A ruddy-faced man with wiry, grey hair was pointing a shotgun at Tom's head.

"We're just looking for a place to stay for the night," Church protested.

The farmer eyed them suspiciously, but didn't lower his weapon.

"Bloody hell, it's Deliverance," Veitch hissed under his breath.

"Okay, we'll go!" Church said. "So much for West Country hospitality."

"Christ, a night sleeping under a hedge," Veitch moaned as they turned away.

The farmer brought the shotgun to his side. "You can't be staying out there at night," he said, hesitantly. Church saw fear in his eyes. "Don't you know what's happening?"

"What do you mean?" Church asked.

"It's changed. It's all bloody well changed." He looked away uncomfortably.

"What's troubling you?" Tom attempted a note of concern which came across as insincere, but it didn't seem to trouble the farmer.

"Don't tell me you don't bloody see it. Everybody in the countryside knows it's different now, only nobody talks about it!" His voice rose, then cracked, on the edge of hysteria. He looked from one to the other frantically. "You can't bloody go out at night! You take your life in your hands if you go into the wilder places! There're all sorts of things out there-"

"You've seen them?" Church asked.

The farmer's mouth clamped shut as his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Oh, ah, I'm not bloody mad, you know."

"We've seen them too." The farmer looked at Church with such sudden hope it was almost childlike. "Things have changed."

"What's gone wrong?" the farmer pleaded. "What are they?" There were tears of relief moistening his eyes; Church thought he was going to hug them.

"You better come inside."

The kitchen was dark despite the sunlight outside; it didn't look like it had been modernised in years. There was a large, heavily scored wooden table in the centre of the room, and a stove on the far wall over which hung a line of fading clothes drying in the dull heat. The floor was tiled and muddy and the kitchen was filled with old cooking smells and the underlying aroma of wet dogs. The farmer introduced himself as Daniel Marsh. He'd worked the land since he was a boy, as had generations of his family before him, but Church couldn't see any signs of other family members. He put a battered kettle on the stove and boiled up the water for an enormous pot of tea, which he served in chipped mugs. It soon become apparent to Church and the others that some heavy burden was lying on his shoulders beyond his obvious fear of the change in the countryside. After half an hour of small talk, he couldn't stop himself anymore.

"When the sun goes down, I'm never the same," he began cautiously. His eyes looked hollow from too little sleep and his face muscles had sagged under the weight of an array of dismal emotions. "One of those things out there, it comes here." He motioned to the house. "Not every night, but enough so I can't rest."

"What sort of thing?" Veitch eyed the farmer askance.

"A devil. A little devil, 'bout as high as this here table." His head fell until his face was hidden and he was racked by a juddering sob. "I don't know how I'm going to go on. I thought about taking that"-he waved towards the shotgun-"and blowing my bloody head off, but I don't know, I don't know …"

"What does it do?" Church asked anxiously.

"It talks to me, pinches me. Hurts me. I know that doesn't sound much, but the things it says!" He covered his face for a moment, then seemed to catch himself. "You can stay here tonight if you like," he said, unable to hide his desperation.

"Sure. You've sold it to us so well," Veitch said.

Marsh acted as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders. He promised them good food for dinner, then left them alone while he headed out to do some work in the fields.

"Do you think it's happening like this all over?" Veitch asked as they sat around the table gorging themselves on the farmer's bread and cheese.

"What do you mean?" Church was looking at deep score marks in the kitchen walls, as if they had been swiped by razor-sharp nails.

"People all around the country dealing with this weird shit, but too scared or too worried their neighbours will think them crazy to talk about it. So they just keep it all to themselves and nobody knows what's going down."

Church shrugged. "It can't stay bottled up for much longer. Sooner or later it's going to blow up and the Government is going to have to do something about it. It'll be on the front page of the Sun-"

"Unless things reach a head before then." Tom pushed his chair away from the table and rested his hands on his belly. "By the time anyone really realises what's happening, there might not be any Government, or newspapers. Just people running for their lives with nowhere to go."

There was a long moment of silence and then Veitch said, "You're a bundle of laughs, aren't you. I'm surprised the army or M15 or some of those bastards aren't on to it already."

Church considered the lack of media coverage about what events they had witnessed, and then thought about the stone-faced men clustered around the charred skeletons at the Salisbury depot and the helicopters they had seen scouring the landscape. "Maybe they already are. Maybe they don't know what to do either."

The evening was so balmy it could have been summer, and it was filled with the kind of perfumes that shouldn't have been expected for several weeks: rose, jasmine, clematis and the sweet bloom of night-scented stock. Overhead the clear sky sparkled with an array of stars that had Ruth, Laura and Shavi gazing up in awe.

"You never see that in the city." Laura was unable to hide the wonder in her voice.

"I can't believe this place. It's almost magical." Ruth felt a shiver run through her. "If this is part of the New Age too then it can't all be bad."

"A time of terrors and wonders," Shavi agreed. "Perhaps all the other focal points for the power in the earth are like this-a sanctuary, a place to rest and recharge your own energy where the Evil outside cannot touch you."

"I feel like staying here forever," Ruth said regretfully.

"Somewhere safe." Laura glanced from Ruth to Shavi.

His faint smile suggested he knew what they were feeling, but that it could never be. "Let us make the most of this time," he added, leading the way along the street to the pub. But his unspoken words lay heavy on all of them.

In the King William pub next to the Market Cross they ordered three pints of potent scrumpy. The cloudy drink had a rough quality and a powerful aroma of apples that was completely dissimilar to the mass-produced cider they had all tried before, but whether it was the invigorating, dreamlike atmosphere that pervaded the town or the sudden infusion of alcohol, within moments it felt like the best drink they had ever had.

Shavi nodded. "This is what our ancestors used to feel. The body, mind and soul need to be in perfect balance. The trinity leading to enlightenment represented by the eye opening in the pyramid. Knowledge is fine, but the Age of Reason's focus upon it above all else threw us out of balance. Our souls became weakened. Instinctively, we all recognised it-that feeling of discontent with our lives and our jobs that has pervaded us all for the last few decades. You must have noticed it?" They nodded, entranced by his voice. "We need to learn to feel again."

"Well, aren't you the guru." Laura grinned at him, but there was none of the spite that usually infused her comments; Ruth wondered if the magic was working on her character too.

"Perhaps that is part of this quest we are all on," Shavi mused. "Not merely to find physical objects of power to defend ourselves, but in some way to discover and unlock the truly alchemical part of our souls that will make us whole and more able to cope with the trials ahead. A quest for the spiritual rather than the physical, a search that goes inward-"

"Why don't you shut up and do a quest to the bar," Laura Jibed.

His smile warmed them both. "I talk too much," he apologised, "or perhaps I think too much. Either way, now is the time for enjoyment."

At the end of the evening they made their way back to the camp in a drunken haze of laughter and joking. But the first thing they saw when they reached the tents was clothes scattered across their sleeping bags and their possessions ransacked. Nothing seemed to have been taken.

"This is weird," Ruth said. "Just like the car at the service station. It feels like someone's following us."

Even that didn't dampen their spirits, nor remove their feeling that Glastonbury was an oasis of safety for them that night. Ruth and Laura tidied up while Shavi lit a fire, and once it was roaring, they lazed around it. The atmosphere felt so relaxing and secure, Ruth only managed ten minutes before her eyes started to close. She crawled into her tent, leaving Laura and Shavi to talk dreamily into the night.

After a while he dipped into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with mushrooms. "The sacrament," he said with a smile. "Care for some?"

Laura pulled out a handful and examined them in the firelight. "Magic shrooms? Where'd you get these?"

"I brought them with me. Since the change, they have become even more powerful, almost shamanistic in effect. Taken in quantity, I find my spirit-" A smile sprang to his lips as he caught himself. "I am talking too much again."

"Before I hooked up with this weird crew I used to be blasted on Es and trips all the time in the clubs. Dust, even. God knows what I was doing to my body." There was a note in her voice that suggested her experiences hadn't all been pleasurable.

"I have a feeling the lab drugs will lose their potency," he mused. "All part of the blight on our technological world. Natural things seem to be coming into their own."

Laura peered into the bag. "Been a while since I've been on mushrooms," she said thoughtfully. She popped a few into her mouth. "How many do we take?"

"Not many," he said. "This can be a ritual of awareness and bonding, not a trip."

"Nothing's simple with you, is it?"

"You can look at things in different ways without harming the experience. There are some who think drug-taking is inherently immoral without considering that psychedelics have been a part of some cultures' religious experience for centuries. Other people's wine and wafer, if you will, transubstantiating into the body and blood of nature."

Laura snorted, but didn't comment further. She chewed the rubbery mushrooms, trying to ignore the metallic taste, then swallowed with a wince. Shavi followed suit and they lay next to the fire watching the flames, waiting for the drug to kick in.

It didn't take Laura long to notice the familiar fuzziness on the edge of her vision. It was followed by the faint auditory hallucinations in the crisp crackle of the fire or the rustle of the breeze in the branches, and then the growing sense of well-being that made her laugh for no reason apart from the joy of being alive. They chatted amiably for a while as Laura felt the layers of her defences slowly being stripped away. Don't make a fool of yourself, she thought, but after so long honesty was pressing hard against her throat.

"This may sound weird," she began, "but despite all the shit flying around I really feel like I've found some purpose in my life. I wouldn't tell them to their faces, and I wouldn't have believed it myself if someone had told me a few weeks ago, but I feel like I belong with Church and Ruth. For all their faults. And you. Like we're coming from the same place." She turned her head away, suddenly aware of her words.

"You do not have to be embarrassed by your feelings," Shavi said gently.

"Yeah, I do, because if I let my real feelings out I'll tear myself apart."

"Is that what you believe?"

"It's what I know. Blame my parents." Her voice trailed off morosely. She expected Shavi to question her further, but when he didn't she couldn't contain herself. "My loving mother and father have really screwed me up and I hate them for it."

"Talk about it if you like."

"I don't know if I can."

"Then ignore it."

"I can't." She lay on her back and watched Ruth's owl swoop and soar in the sable sky, feeling the currents beneath its wings as if she were flying alongside it. And then she closed her eyes and she was there, in the dark, nursing the welts, smelling the iron tang of blood, too sore even to move. "You know, religion is a dangerous thing. For strong people, it's just teaching, guidance, a few rules to keep them on the path for good. But weak people let it eat them up. There's so little inside them they can trust, they allow it to control them, like some devil on their backs, following what it whispers to them even when it's obviously wrong. Which is about as ironic as it gets. For them it's a class A drug and they should be treated like addicts, put on some religious methadone treat ment. Yeah, religion-lite. Wonder what that would be? The Church of the Soap Opera?" She laughed at the ridiculousness of the image. "Anyway, guess which category my darling folks fell into."

"Some people draw strength from it-"

"I have no problem with that," she snapped. She sighed and added, "Sorry. Raw nerves-a-go-go. My parents were Catholics gone mad. And like all fundamentalists, they believed absolute discipline was the only way. You know, you allow a little weakness in and suddenly the cracks are shooting up the wall. They were terrified of the chaos of life and they had to lock themselves away in their little religious fortress to stop them from going mad. But of course I was in that fortress with them. A sneaky little spy who couldn't be trusted not to let the enemy past the gates, so I had to be convinced to be a true patriot. The slightest misdemeanour and my mum would go crazy. It started off with just the back of the hand, but as I got older it developed to a rolled-up newspaper, belts, table tennis bats, just about anything she could pick up and thrash about with. And after she'd finished and got it all out of her system she used to lock me in the airing cupboard. Pitch black. So hot I was almost choking. I cried myself out pretty young."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"It was all I knew from when I was a tiny kid. I thought it was normal, for God's sake. Stupid bitch. Now I know my mum wasn't wired up right. Yeah, crazy as a loon."

Shavi examined her face carefully; her words were glib, almost dismissive, but her experiences were etched harshly in her features. "Did your father-"

"My dad never laid a finger on me. He just condoned it when she did. He'd crawl away like some weak little mouse and read the paper, and for that I almost hate him more." She closed her eyes and after a while Shavi thought she had fallen asleep, but then she said, "I killed her, you know."

Shavi waited for her to continue.

She laughed, her hand going to her mouth like a young girl. "Nothing fazes you, does it?"

"Go on."

"I realised my mum was going nuts when I was in my teens. I could see it in her eyes. Whenever she looked at me, they went all starey, like she hated me. I could see the whites all around them." Her voice had grown more serious. "And the more funny she went in the head, the worse she got with me. Somewhere down the line it went beyond punishment. I used to get burnt, cut. Once I spent a whole weekend in the airing cupboard listening to her say her Hail Marys outside the door. What do you expect? — I rebelled. I was drinking like some rum-sodden old sailor before I was sixteen, hoovering up any drugs that came near me. I wasn't exactly an angel when it came to boys. And the worse I got, the worse my mum got. Luckily I'd an aptitude for technology. Somehow I winged it through my exams and got a place at university. She didn't want me to go, the witch, but I was old enough to do what I wanted then so I just legged it. Of course, by that time they'd decided I was the Devil himself. I was no longer part of the family, as simple as that. Which, by me, was great. It was like getting let out of jail. Just call me Papillon."

Shavi reached over and rested his hand on the back of hers. She didn't flinch.

"A couple of years ago I must have had a brainstorm or something," she continued. "I had a dream about her and thought maybe it was time I made my peace with her. Yeah, right. Like some stupid, gullible idiot I turned up at the old homestead. My dad was out. She answered the door and I knew straight away she'd fallen out of the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down. I was surprised she was still walking around. But she just smiled and invited me in like it was only yesterday she'd seen me. I had a cup of tea, tried to make small talk, but then she started spouting all that Bible crap, saying she'd been praying for my salvation. I thought, Here we go again. I got up to go and as I was walking through the kitchen she came up behind me and hit me with a fucking iron. Clunk. Big comedy moment, no laughs unfortunately. And when I woke up she'd done this."

She rolled on to her side so her back was towards him and pulled her T-shirt up to her neck. In red scar tissue across her pale skin were the words Jesus loves you.

Shavi was overcome with such a deep pity for her he couldn't find any words to say. He reached out to trace the scars gently with his fingertips and this time she did flinch. But then she reached out behind her, caught his hand and held it against her side.

The psychedelics were swirling through her system now, releasing terrible memories, freeing the awful thoughts she had attempted to contain for so long. Under usual circumstances she would have expected the experience to induce levels of paranoia and terror that would have left her crumpled in a ball on the ground, but in that strange, charged environment all she felt was an immense sadness which she knew she had to expunge from her system.

"There's a place where you go when life's threatening to destroy you," she continued in a small voice, without turning over to face him. "Some kind of sanctuary in your head, and thank God it's there because right then I don't think I'd have carried on without it. She'd used one of my dad's razors. My back was in agony and I was covered in blood, vomiting from the shock. And she was still spouting Bible stuff and waving the razor around in this kind of dance. A stupid, childish dance. And at that moment I knew what a complete moron I was. I hated her and wanted her dead for everything she'd done to me in my life, but I loved her as well and I just kept asking her to hug me and make it all right. But she wouldn't listen." A shiver ran through her, and Shavi squeezed her side supportively. "A stupid fucking moron. Sometimes I hate myself."

"You were just being human."

"And then she came at me again. I tried to get out of the way, but she was crazy, thrashing around with the razor. I've got a great scar on my scalp under this perfectly styled hair. I was flailing around and somehow I grabbed this big wooden crucifix they'd always had hanging on the wall next to the fridge. I lashed out with it and it caught her on the temple. She must have hit me with something at the same time, or maybe it was just the shock of what I'd done, but I blacked out too. And when I woke up she was dead. I don't know if it was from me hitting her or where she'd gone down hard against the edge of the cooker, but whichever way you slice it, I killed her. There was blood everywhere-" The words choked in her throat.

Shavi moved in close to her, sliding his arm around her waist, pulling her into him. She went rigid at first, resisting the human contact, but then she relaxed against him, crossing her arms over his in a desperate yearning for comfort.

"My dad came back soon after and found me still sitting there. All I wanted was for him to hold me, but it was like I wasn't there. He started mumbling, 'We must call the police,' detached, emotionless things like that, and I was screaming, 'Dad, Mum's dead' over and over. I just wanted some reaction from him. Then he turned to me and said really coldly, 'If the police find you here they'll arrest you for what you've done. Get out.' It was like a slap in the face. I got up, washed the blood off and walked out. Later I found out he'd told the police he'd done it. Can you believe that?"

"He was trying to save you," Shavi suggested.

Laura laughed hollowly. "You'd think, wouldn't you? But it wasn't about me, it was about the sacrifice. By giving himself up instead of me, he felt he'd done the right thing, the Godly thing. It was his big chance. In his eyes it made him a better person: God would smile on him and throw wide the gates of heaven. Hallelujah! There wasn't a single thought for me and I have never heard him from him since. I don't even know what happened to him-he could be rotting inside the squirrel house, or still living in the house basking in his own glory for all I know. For all I care. Whenever I go back to Salisbury to see my mates I never go anywhere near the place, and I make sure they don't tell me anything about him."

"You could be wrong about him."

"No, I could see it in his eyes when he walked into the kitchen and took in the situation. He was already thinking about it then." She let out a deep breath of air that seemed to drain her. "What a crazy life, eh? And now the world's ending. That big old Catholic God must really be despairing of everything that's been done in his name."

Shavi hugged her tightly, nuzzling his face into her neck so he could speak softly into her ear. "You have suffered terribly-"

"I don't want pity! That's not why-"

"And I am not giving you any. I want to show you respect for the success you have made of your life-"

"Success! I feel like a loser! Fucked in the head, washed up in drugs, lonely, bitter … Funny choice of words you have there, pal."

"But you have overcome such a terrible experience. You are carrying on, and that is all we can really hope for. In the end, we have to make our own way, without our parents, without our loved ones, using our own strength. And what you are doing now shows your worth."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it. If you're a nut." She laughed lightly; oddly, she felt better than she had done in years. "You're a strange dude, Shavi. I don't know why the hell I'm talking to you."

"We are all strangers, but we have connections that go much deeper than conscious thought."

"You could be right. Everything is insane enough now for that to be true." She paused, suddenly aware of his hands on her skin. At the thought, a tingle ran through her groin, heightened by the drugs. "You can't beat talking about misery for making you feel sexy," she said.

He was silent for a long minute, as if shocked by her comment, but then he said calmly, "Do you want to make love?"

"Sure, why not? There's nothing like gratuitous, no-strings-attached sex with a stranger to make a girl feel good. But you better have some protection, big boy."

She could sense his smile behind her. "I always come prepared," he said.

Whether it was the magical atmosphere or the drugs, her nerves seemed charged. When he ran his fingertips up from her belly to the soft curve of her breast, it felt like a web of electricity crackled across her body, and when he lightly touched the end of her hard nipple she jolted with a spasm of delight. She turned her head so he could reach her mouth. The kiss was moist and supple and filled with passion. The excitement of the moment took control of her mind, and she gave herself up to it hungrily. Snaking her hand behind her, she slid it over his clothes until she felt the hard, hot mound in his trousers, which she kneaded gently. Then he was undoing her jeans, slipping his hand over her belly and under her knickers to her pubic hair and beyond, where he began to stimulate her with soft, subtle movements of his fingertips. There was something so expert in his action she had to fight to prevent herself coming in an instant. And then they were both overwhelmed, rolling over, kissing each other hard, pulling their clothes off hastily. In the heightened atmosphere, Laura could barely believe how every sensation was so charged; she felt permanently on the point of orgasm. When he flicked a tongue over her nipple, she had to clench to control herself. And when she slid her naked body up and down his before taking his erection and lowering herself on to it, she thought her senses were going to crash through the overload of excitement. She moved on top of him for a while, before they rolled over, slick with sweat, and he started to thrust into her. His body was hard muscle under her hands, his face darkly handsome in the firelight, and all she could think was he was the best lover in the world.

For a while she gave herself up to the waves of sensation, losing all sense of time, but later she did remember one moment, when she looked past him, up into the sky, and saw what seemed to be scores of golden lights swirling around in the currents from the fire. They were bigger than sparks, almost the size of fireflies, and for the briefest instant she had the oddest feeling that they were tiny, beautiful people with shimmering skin, dipping and diving around them on gossamer wings. It was a moment of pure, undefinable wonder, but later, when they rolled off each other sweat-streaked and exhausted, the night air was clear and she couldn't bring herself to mention it. The image stayed in her heart, though, adding to the feeling of transcendental joy that infused her.

The power was off and the darkness that filled the farmhouse seemed almost to have substance, refusing to retreat in the flickering light of the candles Marsh had hastily placed around the room. But the roaring fire provided some stronger illumination and warmth, although it still didn't seem to penetrate beyond their tight circle of chairs pulled close to it.

Their conversation had all but dried up long ago. Despite cooking them a fine meal which went some way to make up for the privations they had experienced underground, Marsh had been reticent for most of the evening. Church didn't get the impression he had anything to hide; more that his lonely existence had made him taciturn, and that his fear had added to his normal withdrawn state.

The grandmother clock had chimed midnight half an hour earlier, but no one seemed to want to retire; its tick was low and sonorous, like an insistent warning. Marsh had his loaded shotgun across his lap, which made Church feel nervous, but Veitch also kept reaching to the bulge of the gun in his jacket for comfort. Just as Church wondered how much longer they should sit up, the room was suddenly pervaded by a foul smell, a mix of sulphur and human excrement. When it reached Marsh's nostrils, a faint tremor ran across his face and he made an odd mewling sound in the depths of his throat.

"Is this the start of it?" Tom asked.

Marsh's terrified expression had already given away the answer. The whole room held its breath as they cast glances to the darkened corners. It began like the distant rustling of dry paper, eventually becoming something like the sound of rats' claws on wood, but it felt as if it were inside their heads. Marsh raised the shotgun and began to aim it around the room. Veitch was on tenterhooks, his eyes darting while his hand stayed firmly inside his jacket. He'd had the gun out once already, but Church had complained that he felt like he was sitting in some Wild West Saloon. "What's coming?" he whispered redundantly. Church watched them both warily. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Overhead, there came the abrupt sound of clattering across the roof tiles and then a shower of soot billowed out from the whooshing fire. They all leapt back at once, their chairs flying. When the soot had cleared, a small figure lay huddled on the hearth. Marsh blasted both barrels of the shotgun; it sounded like a thunderclap in the room and they jumped out of their skins.

"You stupid bastard!" Veitch cursed.

But the thing had already moved like lightning into the shadowed corners before the buckshot hit. Burbling, throaty laughter floated back to them.

Church had caught the merest glimpse of the creature, but it was enough. Though as small as a child, it had the proportions of a man, with an oversized head like a baby. Black, shiny scales covered the skin and its eyes were large, red and serpent-slitted. A pointed tail snaked out behind it, seemingly with a life of its own. In mediaval times a witness would certainly have branded it a devil, and Church wondered if he should see it that way too.

"Daniel Marsh, you are so harsh, all the things you said, soon you will end up dead." The hideous, old man's voice ended in chittering laughter.

Tom stepped forward. "Show yourself," he said authoritatively, unruffled by the creature's appearance.

"Oh Daniel, you have some friends!" it replied in a sneering singsong. There was a moment when it seemed to be considering its response, and then it sashayed into the centre of the room in an odd, jerky motion which Church would have put down to poor stop-go animation if he had seen it in a film. "What, no holy water? No crucifixes, no in spirito sancto or crossing hand movements and mumbled prayers? You have changed!" He held out his arms like some penitent Jewish tailor.

Marsh chewed on the back of his hand, moaning pathetically while Veitch stared unsurely. But Tom confronted the creature head-on. "You are a foul thing, tormenting this poor man. And so much to do on your return. Why waste time here?"

"Why, good sport, coz!" The devil did a little flip back into the shadows as Veitch advanced on it menacingly. A second later it was back, like a tame monkey sensing food.

"Let's kill it!" Veitch snapped.

"If only you could, little brothers, but you have not grown up that much in time passing!" It moved suddenly, so fast it was almost a blur, bouncing on the sofa across the room towards Marsh before disappearing back into the shadows. The farmer howled in pain. Four streaks of red appeared on his cheek. "First blood to me, I think!" the devil said triumphantly; the voice came from nowhere in particular.

"Why are you here?" Tom continued calmly. He seemed familiar with the creature.

"Here to fill a void," it replied. Somehow it was back on the hearth.

"I don't deserve it! I weren't doing anything!" Marsh howled pitifully.

"Nothing apart from living!" the devil cautioned.

"My wife left me a year ago, the farm's going bust, I feel sick all the time! I've suffered enough! There's no reason for this! It's not fair!"

"But that is the reason, Daniel. I am here because you have suffered. I am making you suffer more because I can, for no other reason than that. And if you seek meaning in life, perhaps you will see it there."

"Do not listen to him," Tom said. "Lies spring easily to him and his kind. His only desire is to torment."

"You wound me!" The devil clutched his heart theatrically. "But because I can lie does not mean that I always lie. In a field of ordure a single pearl of truth shines brighter."

Veitch pulled out his gun and rattled off a couple of shots. "Don't!" Church yelled too late as the bullets zinged off the stone hearth. One shattered what appeared to be an antique plate on the wall while the other burst through the window. But Veitch's attack seemed to have got closer than Marsh's shotgun blast. The devil backed up against the wall, flaring its nostrils and baring its teeth at him. Veitch moved faster than Church could ever have imagined. He launched himself forward, swinging his foot and catching the creature full in the stomach. It squealed like a pig, arcing up, head over heels, to crash against the far wall.

It bounced back like a rubber ball, ricocheting off the floor towards Veitch, a flailing mass of claws and scales. Effortlessly it clamped itself on his head and neck, then threw back its head, opening its jaw so unnaturally wide its head seemed almost to disappear. Veitch had a view of row upon row of razor sharp teeth about to tear his face from his skull.

Tom moved quickly. Snatching up the coal pincers from next to the fire, he gripped the devil firmly about the neck and hauled it off Veitch; it yelled as if it had been branded.

"You and your brethren still do not like cold iron, I see," he said snidely.

The thing wriggled like a snake in his grasp, but Tom heaved it forward and plunged it into the depths of the fire. It howled wildly until it managed to free itself from the pincers. Then it scurried off to the shadows to compose itself. "Not fair," it hissed like a spoiled child. "You know us too well."

"Quick," Tom said, but it was too late. It rolled itself into a ball, then fired itself out of the shadows fully into Marsh's face. The farmer went over backwards, his nose exploding in a shower of blood. As he lay on his back screaming, the devil sat on his chest, ripping and tearing at Marsh's face. It managed to get in only a couple of swipes before Church took a swing at its head with the poker. The blow sent the devil rolling across the floor. Veitch fired another shot, this time blowing the leg off an armchair. And then it was away, tearing out the stuffing of the sofa, streaking up the wall, ripping up the paper as it passed, shattering a mirror with a cry of "Seven years' bad luck!" before settling on a sideboard where it proceeded to fire crockery at them.

Veitch and Marsh fired off random shots, while Tom and Church dived for cover. Clouds of plaster dust erupted from the walls; the light fitting came down with a crash; the sideboard burst open, showering glassware across the floor.

While they stopped to reload, Tom scurried forward and whispered, "We will never kill it like that. Trickery is the only way."

"Let me address you as an equal," he said loudly to the devil. "What should I call you?"

"You may call me `master,"' the creature said slyly. "If you wish to uncover my true naming word, you will have to do better than that. But I know your name, do I not, Long Tom? Your silver tongue seems to have forsaken its poetry for threats. And how is your Royal gift? More curse than gift, I would think." Tom ignored him, pulling Church close to whisper in his ear. Then he turned back to the devil and said, "Would you like me to see your future, little one?"

The creature squirmed. "Thank you for your kind offer, Long Tom, but I prefer to live in the here and now."

"Come, now!" Tom said with a broad grin.

The creature was so concerned at Tom's words that he failed to see Church circling round to his blind spot. Church felt a cold sweat break out on his back. The devil had shown he was terrifyingly fast and vicious; one wrong move and he could lose an arm, or worse. Tom was doing his best to distract the creature, but the things he was saying hinted at a hidden side of him which made Church feel uncomfortable.

"Perhaps I should compose an epic poem to your grandeur, little brother," Tom continued.

"Indeed, that would be a deep honour from a bard so renowned." The devil was not so arrogant now and he was watching Tom suspiciously, as if they were long-standing enemies who knew each other's strengths and weaknesses.

"But then what would I call it?" Tom said. "Ode to a Nocturnal Visitor is so vague. Ode to-?" He held out his hands, suggesting the devil should give him his name.

For a second it almost worked, but then the devil caught himself and simply smiled. "I am sure a rhymer of your great skill could imagine a fitting title. I-"

Church moved quickly, pulling out the Wayfinder from his jacket and holding it in front of him like a weapon, as Tom had instructed. The blue flame flared and licked towards the devil, who caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye and squealed. At the same time, Tom clamped the coal pincers on the devil once more. He howled as he futilely attempted to wriggle free.

"Now," Tom said, suddenly threatening, "we shall have some plain speaking."

The flame sizzled like an acetylene torch as Church held the Wayfinder close. The devil tried to tug its head away, its eyes wide with fear, but it had nowhere to turn. "Keep it away from me!" it hissed.

"The flame will consume you if we allow it-you know that," Tom said bluntly.

"What do you require, masters?" the devil replied obsequiously.

"Just burn him!" Veitch snapped.

"No!" the devil cried. "Anything!"

"This, then." Tom's eyes blazed. "You will leave Daniel Marsh alone for the rest of his days. And," he added, "you will do nothing to bring about that end earlier than fate decrees. Do you so swear?"

"On the warp and weft!" the devil screamed frantically. "Now let me go!"

Tom nodded to Church, who retreated a few feet with the Wayfinder; the flame flickered back to normal and the devil bounded free to the hearth. When it turned, its face was filled with malice and it spat like a cornered cat. It turned to Church first: "You will never find out why she died." Then Veitch: "There is no redemption for murder." And finally to Tom: "You carry your suffering with you."

Then it pointed a finger at the three of them. "Thrice damned," it said coldly before bounding back up the chimney.

Marsh stared for a moment in shock, before falling to his knees in front of the fire, tears flooding down his cheeks. He looked at them incredulously, then said simply, "Thank you."

Church turned to Tom. "Is that it? Will it be back?"

"Not here. But we will have to be on our guard from now on. Word will spread quickly through the brethren, and they hate more then anything else to be humbled by mortals."

Veitch collapsed on to the sofa. "Blimey. What's going on?" He looked at Tom. "What's this brethren, then? They're not Fomorii."

"There are many things that come with the night." Tom poked the fire, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. "Every creature of myth and folklore has its roots in Otherworld. And they're all coming back."

Veitch looked puzzled. "So it's like if London Zoo opened up all its cages at once."

Tom nodded. "One way of looking at it."

Church rested wearily on the mantelpiece. The room looked like it had been attacked by a wrecking crew. "That thing thought you were someone important."

Tom stared into the depths of the fire, saying nothing.

Marsh jumped up, trembling with relief. "That were fine-you bloody well did it! You saved me!" He shook all their hands forcefully, unable to contain himself. "I'll tell you what, the only thing I've ever loved in my life was the land. Then when farming went through all those rough years, I felt like I'd got nothing. But when something like this happens, it makes you think, don't it? About what's important an' all."

Veitch watched the farmer like he'd gone insane. "I reckon you need a bloody good sleep, mate."

"Oh, ah, I'll tell everyone about what you bloody did," Marsh said adamantly.

Church turned to Tom. "And that little devil's going to be spreading the word too. Looks like we're going to get us a reputation."