Elidor (Essential Modern Classics) (12 page)

P
ADDY

“‘R
ight away’,” said David. “‘Right away’! As easy as that!”

“Too easy,” said Roland.

“How do you mean?”

Roland pulled a face. “Too easy: I dunno.”

“I thought we’d had it then,” said Helen. “I could feel those spears. Any second, I thought.”

“We were lucky,” said Nicholas.

“Yes, we were,” said Roland, “weren’t we?”

“How far shall we go?” said David.

“All the way,” said Nicholas. “Into Manchester. It’s safest.”

“We’d better tell Mum and Dad,” said Helen.

“I’d like to see you try,” said Nicholas. “We’ll say there was someone breaking in, so we cleared out. There’ll be enough of a shambles to prove we weren’t kidding.”

“And then what?” said David. “There’s the rest of the night left for the Treasures to be pinched. What time does the dance end?”

“One o’clock.”

“Right. We shan’t do anything now. We’ll meet Mum and Dad out of the dance, and then it’ll be three o’clock at least before all the fuss is over. With luck, we’ll not go to bed at all.”

They paid their fare at the terminus, and walked down the long slope from the station into the city. The streets were brilliant with lights and decorations. People hurried along in groups, making a lot of noise, and very cheerful.

“We want the cheapest place to keep warm in while we’re waiting,” said Nicholas. “Let’s try a coffee bar.”

The children sat at wrought-iron tables in a room that was all bamboo and rubber plant. Non-stop South American music came from a loudspeaker and was killed by the gush of the coffee machine. The children sat there for an hour, ordering more coffee when the waitress glared hard enough.

“It’s not going to be cheap, at this rate,” said Nicholas.

“I’m still jumpy,” said Helen. “I feel as though everybody’s watching us, though I know they’re not.”

“Me too,” said David. “And we ought to move. We’re not all that safe. It’s about a three-hour walk into Manchester from our house: give them another hour to allow for dodging people: so they’ll be arriving about two hours from now. They’ll home on to the Treasures wherever we are. The only thing to do is to stay on the
move, then they won’t be able to lay a fix so easily.”

“I know!” said Roland. “Let’s ride on buses. If we keep changing, they’ll never track us down.”

“That’s it,” said David.

They drank their coffee and went out into the street.

“Which one?” said Helen. “There are dozens.”

“Any bus’ll do,” said Roland. “The first that stops. There! That Number 76!”

They ran along the pavement to the bus stop.

“Inside,” said the conductor, a West Indian. “Plenty of room inside.”

The children took the front two seats behind the driver. Nicholas put the rucksack on his lap.

“Where do you go?” said David.

“Brookdale Park,” said the conductor.

“One and three halves all the way, please,” said Nicholas.

The bus crawled round the city centre. The traffic was dense, and people were using the streets as footpaths, but in a short while the Christmas glitter dropped behind. The bus was passing through an area of garages, public houses and government-surplus stores.

“It’s a bit grim up this end, isn’t it?” said David.

“Don’t you know where we are?” said Roland. “We’ve just turned off Oldham Road. We’re near Thursday Street.”

The bus stopped. “Hurry along, please,” said the conductor. “Both sides.”

“Shoor, a little bit of Heaven – fell-l-l – from out the sky one day—!”

The voice sang, blurred and loud, on the platform. The children looked round, and saw the conductor help a big Irishman up the step. He caught at the overhead rail, missed, and slumped heavily on to the back seat. He wore an army greatcoat, and he was very drunk.

“Man, you started your New Year early,” said the conductor.

“Good luck,” said the Irishman.

“Where you for?”

“Home.”

“I don’t know where that is. You tell me.”

“Ballymartin, County Down.” He was staring straight ahead of him. “There’s a rocky old road I would follow,” he sang, “to a place that is Heaven to me. Though it’s never so grand, still it’s my fairyland—”

“We don’t go there, man. Brookdale Park any good?”

The Irishman held a coin between his fingers. The conductor took the money, and put a ticket and the change in the Irishman’s coat pocket.

The other passengers were trying to ignore him. They became interested in their newspapers, or the advertisements in the bus, or the view from the window.

The Irishman hung over the back of the next seat. “Eh, missus,” he said to the woman sitting there. “Missus.” She froze. “Good luck,” said the Irishman, and appeared to go to sleep.

The woman moved, and went upstairs. At once the Irishman lurched round and sat on the edge of the empty seat. His shoulder filled the gangway. He leaned forward to tap the arm of the man in front.

“Eh, guv’nor.”

David gasped. “Don’t look!” he whispered to the others. “Don’t let him see your faces! It’s him! Paddy, from the demolition gang!”

The children shrank in their seats and used the window behind the driver as a mirror.

“And we’ve still got the Treasures!” said Helen. “He’ll murder us!”

“Would he remember?” said David. “It’s more than a year ago, and he’s properly sloshed.”

“If someone had swiped me with an iron railing, I’d not forget ’em,” said Nicholas. “Stick your head down, Roland.”

Paddy tried again. “Eh, guv’nor. Have yez a piece of paper I could be writin’ on?” The man twitched his arm away. “Oh, it may be for yeeeears—” sang Paddy, “and it may be for ever—!” The man stood up, and pushed past him.

“Ruddy Micks!” he said.

“Good luck,” said Paddy, and moved forward another seat.

“Here, you wanting paper?” said the conductor. “I got some you can have.” He tore a couple of sheets out of a notebook and gave them to Paddy.

“That’s dacent,” said Paddy. He felt in his pockets and fished out a stump of pencil, and became absorbed in trying to write on his knee in the swaying bus.

“Brookdale Park!” shouted the conductor. The bus stopped, and the engine was switched off. The conductor went round to talk to the driver. The children and Paddy were the only people left.

“Shall we run for it?” said David.

“Not a hope,” said Nicholas. “We couldn’t get past him.”

“Eh?” said Paddy. “Are yez there, then?” He strained to focus on the children, hauled himself upright, and crashed down again on the seat opposite Nicholas.

“Eh, a-vic,” he said. “Would yez be helpin’ me with this letter?”

“Er – yes: sure,” said Nicholas.

“I’m not the illiterate, yez’ll understand. I can put a letter together with the best of them. Oh, yes. But it’s a terrible night I’ve had. A terrible night.”

There was no recognition.

“Yes, of course. What do you want me to do?” Nicholas relaxed his grip on the rucksack.

“I’m resignin’,” said Paddy. “Oh, they don’t see me again. It’s me letter of resignation. If I tell yez what to say, will yez be puttin’ it down? Ah – eh – ‘To the foreman. Dear Sir. – Dear Sir’. Eh – have yez written that?”

“Yes,” said Nicholas.

“Ah, well then. ‘Dear Sir.’ Oh, it’s a terrible night.”

“Is that in the letter?” said Nicholas.

“Eh? Oh, no. No. ‘Dear Sir, Herewith me resignation’ – That’s good: that’s good – ‘me resignation I won’t be comin’ no more it’s no place for a good Catholic yours truly Mr Patrick Mehigan’.”

“Do you want to sign it?” said Nicholas.

“No. Eh, no. No. Leave it, a-vic.”

Paddy took the letter, folded it, and stared at it in silence. Nicholas was about to give a signal for them to creep away, when Paddy spoke.

“Am I drunk?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Nicholas.

“I said, am I drunk?”

“Er – perhaps: a little.”

“And no wonder,” said Paddy. “But is horses with horns any sight for a workin’ man?”

“What?” cried Roland. “Where? Where did you see it?”

“Hello there,” said Paddy. “It’s a terrible night.”

Roland bobbed on the seat. “When? Was it today? Here?”

“Lay off him,” said David. “He can’t follow you. Hey, Paddy: tell us about it. We’re listening.”

“Arragh: yez’ll not believe me.”

“We shall. I promise. Please, Paddy.”

“Well then,” said Paddy, “yez’ll understand it’s not a livin’ wage on this job if yez can’t make a bit extra on the
side, like. So I’m goin’ back after dark to pick up the odd scrap or two of lead I’d seen lyin’ about the place. So there’s this yard where I’ve put a few pieces by under an old bath, see? So I goes in – and there’s this horse, all white, and this horn on its head yez could hardly stand up for the sight of. Well, as soon as it has wind of me it’s away out of it, and divil a care whether I shifts or no, right past me, and there’s me on my back. There now. Yez’ll not believe that.”

“Don’t worry,” said Nicholas. “We believe you.”

“Yez’ll not believe it,” said Paddy. “I didn’t meself.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a wallet. “But when I’m in the pub afterwards recoverin’ like, I find these caught in me buttons.” He opened the wallet, and lying between two ragged envelopes were a few wisps of hair.

The children had never seen anything like them. They were neither white nor silver. They were strands of pure light.

Roland caught his breath. “Let me hold them,” he said.

“Oh, no,” said Paddy, drawing back. “I’ll not let no one touch them. There’s no luck in it. I has a drink to see if they’ll go away, but they won’t. I takes a peep after every drink, but they’re still there. Oh, it’s a terrible night.”

“Hi, you waiting for something?” said the conductor. “It’s the end of the road, man.”

“The same again, please,” said Roland.

“It’s a free country,” said the conductor. “But where’s he going?”

“Home to Ballymartin,” said Paddy. “I’ll not be stayin’ here.”

“We want the stop where he got on,” said Roland, holding out the money.

“Wait a minute—” said David.

“OK,” said the conductor. He took Paddy’s fare out of his coat pocket and put another ticket in.

“Good luck,” said Paddy, and began to read his letter. It was upside down, but he admired it.

The bus left them at the corner of a gaslit street. Paddy seemed to be feeling better for the ride.

“Will you show us where you saw this horse?” said Roland.

“I will not,” said Paddy.

“Hold on, Roland,” said David.

“Please,” said Roland.

“I’ll show yez the way, but I’ll not go.”

“Me neither,” said Helen.

They walked to the next corner, and Paddy stopped by instinct outside the frosted glass door of a public house.

“If yez goes on down the next street,” he said, “yez’ll be near enough.” His attention was wandering, drawn to the sound of a piano and laughter from the other side of
the door. “Eh – I think I’ll be havin’ a drop to keep out the cold,” he said. “It’s been a terrible night.”

He pushed open the door. Noise swamped the pavement and he disappeared among the faces, smoke, heat, and din of the public house. The door swung shut.

The children stayed on the corner. Ahead of them the street was a tunnel: no lamps were lit: the houses were empty.

T
HE
W
ASTELAND

“‘C
oincidence’!” said Roland. “That’s all you can say. ‘Coincidence.’ You make me sick!”

“Well, if you think we’re traipsing round in that hole,” said David, “you can think again.”

“But if we find him everything will be all right,” said Roland.

“I’m too scared,” said Helen.

“You landed us in enough trouble yesterday with your hen-brained ideas,” said David. “We’re not going. And that’s flat.”

“Oh yes we are!” said Roland – and sprinted for the blacked-out street.

“Roland! You great steaming chudd! Come back!”

The voices died behind him.

They’ll have to come now! They daren’t leave me!

He ran along the wider streets until his eyes were used to the dark. The moon had risen, and the glow of the city lightened the sky. He twisted down alleyways, running blindly, through crossroads, over bombed sites,
and along the streets again.

I’ll find ’em when they’re right in. It’ll be easy. They’ll be calling after me.

The iron railing was heavy. He carried it hanging at arm’s length, and it was beginning to pull his shoulder down. Roland stopped, and listened. There was only the noise of the city, a low, constant rumble that was like silence.

He was in the demolition area. Roof skeletons made broken patterns against the sky.

Now that he was tired Roland felt less sure of himself. But at the time it had seemed the only thing to do. He had looked at the three stubborn faces, and had known that he could not argue with them any more. It was not a matter of disbelief. They believed him: but they were frightened. And Roland was frightened too.

The streets were so quiet. His footsteps echoed on the cobbles. The ruins hemmed him in. Doors and windows stared at him: abandoned furniture crouched among the rubble. A tin can rattled down a pile of bricks in the shadow of a building.

“Here!” Roland called. “I’m here!”

No answer.

Roland went on. The difficulty was that he could never see far in any direction because of the streets. The whole place was a maze of right angles. The other children might be near, but he would miss them, and he was not going to shout again.

Roland searched for a place that would be safe to climb, and found a staircase on the exposed inner wall of a house. The top step was the highest part of the house: everything above it, including the bedroom floor, had been knocked down.

Roland tested his weight, but the wood was firm, so he went up.

He could see little more of the streets from the top
than from the ground. Behind him was a double row of back yards. The entry between them showed as a cleft.

They’re bound to come sooner or later, thought Roland. The best thing is to stay put.

He sat on the top of the stairs in the moonlight. It was freezing hard. Roofs and cobbles sparkled. Roland felt better. The menace left the streets, and instead he was aware of the quietness of something poised, as if he could always sit here under the moon.

But the cold began to ache into him. He wondered if the others had decided to stay in one place and wait until he came.

This thought bothered him, and he was still trying to make up his mind when the unicorn appeared at the end of the street.

He was moving at a fast trot, and he wheeled about at the crossroad, unsure of the way. Then he came on towards Roland.

Roland sat there above the street and watched the unicorn pass below him, and he dared not even breathe.

The unicorn turned aside to pause at entries and gaps in the walls. He would stand at the threshold of a house, one hoof raised, but always he swung away, and on down the street.

His mane flowed like a river in the moon: the point of the horn drew fire from the stars. Roland shivered with the effort of looking. He wanted to fix every detail in his
mind for ever, so that no matter what else happened there would always be this.

The unicorn turned into the next street, and Roland lost him until he heard the clatter of rubble in the entry, and there was the high neck moving between the walls.

He hurried down the stairs as quietly as he could, and groped his way through the house to the yard. He climbed over the entry wall as the unicorn reached the far end. Roland went after him.

The entry finished in a square of earth and cinders completely enclosed by walls. The unicorn had heard Roland and was waiting, alert, in the middle of the square. They both stood, motionless, watching each other.

“Findhorn,” said Roland. “Findhorn.”

The unicorn tossed his head. Roland walked forward very slowly.

“Findhorn. Sing – Findhorn.”

He was within twenty feet of the unicorn. The nostrils flared.

“Sing, Findhorn.”

The unicorn stamped his hoof and his ears dropped flat to his skull. Roland halted.

“You must sing! You’ve got to!”

He took a step forward, and the horn plunged towards him. Roland dodged aside, and the unicorn went by at a canter, heading for the entry.

“No!” shouted Roland, and ran after the unicorn. “Wait! You mustn’t go!” He caught up with him and tried to turn him. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” He waved his arm. The unicorn stopped. “Whoa back!” He recognised the lowering of the neck, and moved in time. Still the unicorn did not follow up the thrust, but carried on towards the entry.

“Wait!” Roland blocked the way. “Findhorn! Sing!” And he flourished the iron railing, the spear, in the unicorn’s face.

The silver body grew black against the sky as the unicorn reared and brought his hoofs thrashing down. Roland flung himself sideways, and the hoofs showered him with frozen grit. He scrambled on all fours. “No, Findhorn!” But the unicorn was on him, cruel and merciless. Round and round, spraying cinders: only Roland’s agility saved him: hoofs and horn and teeth: round and round.

There could be no end to it, no escape. Roland’s nerve failed. He ran for the wall.

“Jump!”

He heard the voice, and through sweat he saw a hunchbacked shape kneeling on the broad coping stone of the wall. “Catch hold!” An arm reached, and he leapt, grabbed, and half swung, half clawed himself up the wall.

“You never learn, do you?” said Nicholas. The stone in
the rucksack on his shoulders had nearly overbalanced him when he took Roland’s weight. They lay together, not daring to move, while the horn flashed below them.

“Where’ve you come from?” gasped Roland.

“I was in the street on the other side, and I heard you beefing.”

“We’ve got to make him sing,” said Roland. “It’s the way to save Elidor. That’s what we’re here for.”

“What?” said Nicholas. “That? Sing? Don’t make me laugh!”

“He must. He’s got to. He’s frightened: you can’t blame him.”

The unicorn was pacing backwards and forwards under the wall.

“He doesn’t seem frightened to me,” said Nicholas. “I’d say he wanted to finish us off.”

“That’s because he saw the spear. He thinks he’s being hunted again. Look at those scars all along his flank.”

“He doesn’t give up, does he?” said Nicholas. “I’m glad we don’t have to go down there.”

“But we do,” said Roland. “I dropped the spear when I jumped.”

“That’s that, then,” said Nicholas. “We’ll have to get by on three Treasures. But why is the unicorn here in the first place?”

“Trying to go back, I think,” said Roland. “He knows
this is one of the gates through. I was watching him in the street.”

“Have you seen David and Helen?”

“No,” said Roland. “Aren’t they with you?”

“We lost each other crossing a bombed site.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, you’ve made a right mess of things one way or another,” said Nicholas.

“We must find them,” said Roland.

“You don’t say! Well, where are they?”

Nicholas swept his arm to include the whole city. The row of houses they were on was at the edge of the demolition area. On the other side from where the unicorn was waiting lay the open wasteland.

Roland looked across the frozen landscape. He started, nearly falling off the wall.

“There!” he said. “There they are!”

Two figures were running together towards the houses.

“Thank goodness for that,” said Nicholas. “Ahoy! David! Helen! Here!”

“Hello!” shouted a voice.

“That’s David!” said Roland. “He’s in the street!”

“Then who are those two?” said Nicholas.

But by now the figures were near enough for Roland and Nicholas to see the cloaks, and the moon gleamed on the spears in the wasteland.