Shadow Girl (10 page)

All that exists is the booming in her head; the hand on her breast; the fingers digging deep; the whip cowing her; the man fucking her; the woman tonguing her. She has lost all restraint. Her demon is driving her to distraction, squeezing all modesty from her. Her fingers are puppets jerking to a randy tune. They curl, they twirl, they spin the devil's dance. And she is swelling, bubbling. The lust is choking her, bloating her to a peak. That thing wants too much. It wants all of her. Her sanity, her mind. She cannot refuse. She cannot hold back. It is far too good. Too intense. Too much. The pleasure is tearing through her. Frying her brain.

She convulses in bleak ecstasy, crying, wailing, bent against her seat like a bow stretched to breaking point.

But no one has heard her harsh release for at the very second when she erupted, the milky night of the café exploded in blaring thunder.

Her chest heaving like a typhoon sea, she throws dazed, uncertain looks around her. The storm is rumbling on and more lightning is bolting over the tall ovals, searing the night. She is shaking with spent emotion. Unsettled by this new surrender to her stark urges. Self-pleasuring has never, ever felt this mind-blowing before.

The Paris nude is still floating above her — draped in her wooden colours and immobile, it seems. Hand resting just below the belly button. Exactly as it was before.

Oh, this is all so puzzling. Did she only
imagine
this frozen woman moving, fingering herself? Was it all just a fantasy? She is not sure. Things have been so confused lately, so muddled. She averts her gaze, fearful she might fall prey again to her cravings.

Her eyes roll sideways, in Jenny's then Yaouen's direction, but she can only see their dark forms. Nothing to suggest her lover or her friend has seen anything. She reaches down for her shorts and wriggles back into them, clumsily. Then draws herself up on her seat, trying to regain some of her composure. Trying not to read too much into her shameless dreams.

The fullness of the outside world flushes back in. The noise is deafening, the clamour around her overwhelming. The Korrigans are up on the tables, hopping with excitement. This is a veritable madhouse.

Then, like a curtain falling on a performance, the commotion stops abruptly. The lightning and the thunder die away as quickly as they appeared. Overtaken by a strange torpor, the bearded little people calm down and climb meekly into their seats. And the stardust races back to the nude, which fades out with a hiss.

Only the rows of standing ovals are left shimmering in the ether. They have acquired more grain and substance and Sandra realises they are stones. Rows of tall grainy stones standing like sentinels on the edge of the night.

Bursting from a far-flung horizon, a bright ray hits the top of the most imposing rock. Then light spreads to the rest of this petrified army. Sandra watches on, intrigued. Watches as the glow of this new day engulfs the stones, one by one. When that is done, they too, like the nude just before, fragment into dots and vanish.

For a moment, all is quiet. The eerie dawn has gone and the café is back to its golden mood. All you can hear is the occasional scratching of a beard.

Yaouen breaks the silence.

‘At least we know where the nude anomaly comes from.'

Jenny turns to Sandra and lays a concerned hand on her arm.

‘You look a bit flustered. Did you find this upsetting?'

Sandra hesitates, praying the glow in her cheeks is not giving too much away.

‘Err . . . That was quite a bite to take all in the same oneness I guess.'

‘Poor thing. You
have
been through a lot lately. Do you know what those stones were?'

‘Not a clueless.'

‘Menhirs.'

‘Men wotsit?'

‘Big standing stones. Megaliths.'

‘Like Stonebench?'

‘Yes. Like Stonehenge.'

‘Those rocks are scattered all over Europe,' adds Yaouen, ‘but there is only one place you can find so many of them.'

He pauses and raises a finger.

‘Karnag.'

If he was hoping for effect, he has failed, for Sandra is dishing him a thoroughly blank stare.

‘Never heard of Karnag? Or Carnac, with two Cs, as the French maps have it.'

‘Only Karnak in Egyptoland. Sorry.'

‘Well, it's only the biggest megalithic site in the world after all,' he says, with pity in his voice. ‘Rows of menhirs stretching over four kilometres. Stonehenge is to Karnag what a child's plastic boat is to an ocean-racing hydrofoil.'

‘Or what a can of beer in a takeaway joint is to a glass of Vouvray in a five-star restaurant,' chips in Jenny.

‘Quite so,' he confirms. ‘Anyway, I've just traced the nude's energy to the Karnag menhirs. Whatever force created that statue has its source in Brittany. Makes perfect sense.'

Yaouen's definition of perfect sense, it seems to Sandra, has little in common with hers. As far as she is concerned, all this talk of nudes and menhirs makes perfect muck — of the thickest, least transparent variety.

Her incomprehension must be pasted on her face in fat layers, for Yaouen clarifies.

‘You see, it's all to do with basic earth flows.'

He digs into his pocket and brings out a tiny cube. After checking the symbol painted on it and giving a mysterious smile, he drops the object on the table. The cube pops open, releasing a swarm of levitating bits of paper. Then the scraps are drawn to each other and, in less time than it would take a Korrigan to flap his ears, they have assembled like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The newly formed parchment floats gently down to the table.

It is a map of France, crisscrossed with thin red lines.

‘He could have googled this,' remarks Jenny for Sandra's benefit, ‘but he likes his theatrics.'

Yaouen stares sternly at Jenny, debating perhaps whether to say something. But he seems to think better of it and turns back to Sandra.

‘This shows the main telluric forcelines identified by the ancient druids. As you can see, there is a whole network of them spread out all over France, and beyond, connecting a number of nodal points: Saintes, Lyon, Lourdes, Strasbourg, Stonehenge in Britain. And take a look here.'

He is pointing at a large dot in southern Brittany, from which red lines are radiating like the ribs of a scallop shell.

‘Karnag, near the Bay of Quiberon. One of the major centres of telluric energy. Connected to Italy and Greece, to the Netherlands and Eastern Europe. Now, see this line?' His finger is tracing a path from Karnag to Paris. ‘This is a prime energy route of the ancient Celtic world. It starts from the rows of megaliths and continues eastward, linking the western tip of Europe to Moscow via Paris, Reims and Berlin. Incidentally, the menhirs are not just aligned with Paris. If you look west, to the sea, they also point towards the setting sun at the winter solstice.'

He looks at her.

‘In short, something happened in Karnag to trigger the appearance of that spunky lady in Paris. And we'd better investigate what.'

‘We?'

‘Well, I, to be precise. But I need you close by, so I'll drop you off in Vannes. That's next door to Karnag. I know a place where you can stay.'

Dropped off? She would like to think she has misheard but she suspects there is little chance of that.

‘Wot hairpinned to “you're free as a dicky birdie after I'm finalised with you”?'

‘Still holds. But I am not finished with you. Your English needs some work.'

‘So then, why don't you jist give me that last pokey-bang-bang and be done-deal with it?'

‘I'm afraid there is no time for this. We have to leave right now.'

‘Riot now?' She looks at him, startled. ‘What the hickatee heck are you clucking about?'

‘I suspect foul play in Karnag. My investigation cannot wait.'

‘Then why can't you peep off on your lonesome and come back when you're done-deal?'

‘I don't know how long it'll take. I don't want to leave you in the lurch.' He puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘You know, stuck here in limbo, unable to go back to work.'

Stuck in limbo. This is indeed where she is. She feels like crying. Somehow she knew it. She knew he would screw her all the way and leave her life in tatters. She puts up a last show of resistance, though she knows she is beaten.

‘I don't want to be dripped off anywhere. Espeshally not in some country pothole I've never even heard of. Why cunt I stay in Paris? That's where the statute is, isn't it?'

‘The statue is just the end product. I need to go to the source.' He pauses, then adds, placatingly, ‘You'll see, Sandra, Vannes is a delightful place. Reeking with history, packed with restaurants and creperies. You'll love it. And Jenny will be your guide. She knows the place like the back of her pretty hand.'

It is early evening. Under a deep turquoise sky, the Opera House is sheened in the glow of its spotlights.

‘A little beauty, don't you think?'

Hands on hips, Yaouen is gazing at the jagged outline across the water. Sandra is not quite sure if he was speaking to her or Jenny, so she nods silently.

‘Impeccable crest. Perfect girth. The wings have exceptional symmetry.'

She is wondering why they left Le Triskel in a hurry and rushed down to Circular Quay to praise the Sydney landmark.

‘Look at that line. A perfect arch.'

Well, she does like the look of those arches too but cannot see why Yaouen should be so taken with them right this minute.

‘Look how it flows so neatly into the croup.'

The croup? She looks at him, puzzled. His expression is unreadable. And Jenny is just smiling by her side.

‘Good jowl clearance, moderate back, well-muscled loins,' continues Yaouen.

She suddenly has the feeling he is not just talking architecture.

He snaps his fingers.

Oh no. Not the finger-snapping thing. She has learned it is not a good sign.

Jenny squeezes her hand. ‘Look.'

The contours of the Opera House are quivering. No, the finger thing was definitely not a good sign. Before she has time to steel herself to whatever weird phenomenon is about to be unleashed upon the world, two large wings have extracted themselves from the arched roofs, unfolded to their full length and begun to beat over the harbour and its host of crafts.

Sandra's jaw has dropped — again — to the vicinity of her chest, though to her credit, it only takes her a few seconds to recover. She stares on bravely. If her senses are to be believed, a white horse's head has grown out of the two smaller arches near the water's edge. The creature stretches its neck and the air quakes with its powerful neigh. Then it pulls away from the building and rises into the dusk.

Well, she'll be damned. It's just like those daydreams she's been having. Or close enough. She swallows hard and watches the apparition veering high in the sky, its wings spread out gracefully. Its turn complete, the horse goes into a swoop.

It is heading straight for them, with dizzying speed. She fights the urge to cover her eyes.

The colossus is almost upon them before it throws its wings into reverse. She gets a free blow wave and might have been sent tumbling if Yaouen had not spun round and clapped both arms around her. His touch is electrifying.

On impulse, she buries her face into his neck and as she does so has a vision of a wooded lakeside teeming with deer and birds of all kinds. Her heart is warmed unexpectedly. She wraps herself in this glow and the comfort of his strength and, for a few precious instants, forgets about the turmoil of her life.

But he is already breaking his hold. The animal has landed next to them and is waiting with flared nostrils, head held high, mane flicking and tail swishing. A shiver courses over its skin and it gives a muffled snort. Although it stands tall over her and exudes formidable strength, it has scaled down its opera stature to a more human-friendly size.

‘Meet Morvarc'h,' says Yaouen. ‘Don't worry, no one will be staring. He is only visible to us, though some around here might be wondering what the hell they've just heard.'

He checks the surroundings. Behind them, the Campbell Storehouses are glowing in the twilight, their restaurants home to the first evening clients. A few strollers are ambling past their manicured terraces.

‘Why cunt they see the gee-gee?' asks Sandra.

‘Simple. They're not like us,' says Jenny.

‘Like us?'

‘They're not fae.'

Sandra eyes her curiously.

‘Wot the picklecock do you signify, fae-fie-fo-fum? Are you implicating that you and my own self . . .'

‘All aboard!' presses Yaouen. ‘No time for chitchat.' He scowls at Jenny. ‘Remind me to have a word with you later. You're too free with your tongue.'

He gives Morvarc'h a gentle pat on his chest and the horse lowers himself, bending one front leg, stretching out the other, in a manner evocative of a curtsy. Yaouen steps onto the salient limb and, grabbing the mane, vaults smoothly onto his back. Then he reaches down and picks up Sandra without apparent effort. Jenny too is pulled up, and once in position, she slips her arms around Sandra's waist.

‘I would advise you to do the same,' she tells Sandra.

There is ample room on the horse, even for three — though the women have to rest their feet on the roots of his wings.

To the uninitiated eye, the trio are sitting six feet above the ground, in curious defiance of the rules of physics. A handful of people are casting nonplussed looks their way. A fellow with a floppy tourist hat flips a smartphone out of his pocket but Yaouen mumbles something and the device flies out of his hand before shattering into fragments on the ground.

‘Can't a man ride a perfectly invisible magic horse without being filmed nowadays?' he grumbles. ‘Whatever happened to privacy?'

Morvarc'h has unfolded his wings to give the first powerful flaps. He rises gently above the cove, then banks and glides towards the Harbour Bridge.

‘Everyone hang on tight!'

The stallion tucks in his wings and accelerates like an arrow. He skims up the arch of the bridge at breakneck speed and, on reaching the apex, shoots off into the night sky as if propelled by an unseen sling.

Sandra's heart also seems to have been flung somewhere — right down to her heels — and she hangs on to Yaouen's waist for all she is worth. Below her, the harbour spreads out its light-rimmed inlets all the way to the ocean. She thinks briefly of her apartment, of the life she is leaving behind. What the hell is she embarking on?

She hears a noise like fabric ripping and ventures a look over Yaouen's shoulder. A rim of fire has popped out of nowhere some way ahead of them. The sky appears darker inside the circle, almost ink black. Are they heading for this? Really? She does not like the look of that hole. Not one bit.

But Morvarc'h is blithely impervious to her misgivings and powers on. Wings still hugging his flanks, the horse shoots through the hoop and disappears with a whoosh, taking his riders with him.