The Exiled (17 page)

“Nice of you to drop by,” a voice said from behind them and they turned to face Dave Galloway—or rather what had once been Galloway. Physically at least, he was now something else entirely.

The first thing Grainger noticed was the most obvious—the man had grown in both in height and breadth and was now near seven feet tall and barrel-chested above stocky, thick legs. He looked gray and dry, cracked in places and oozing pinkly through skin with the texture of rough stone. His eyes, deep set now beneath heavy brows, were milky and clouded.

Galloway must have seen the shock on Grainger’s face. He laughed and stretched out his arms.

“See what you’re missing? You too could have a body like mine. I just need one more and it will be complete.”

“One more? One more wee lassie, you mean?” Grainger said, almost shouting. “I’ll see you in hell before I let that happen.”

He stepped forward, knife raised, aware even as he did so that the weapon would be little use if Galloway’s skin proved to be as tough as it now looked.

The big man laughed, mouth gaping open to show a gray tongue like a slab of cold stone among tombstone teeth.

“Come and try it, copper,” Galloway said. “You have no power over me—not here.”

Maybe I do.

“All magic is an effort of will,” Grainger said softly. He turned to the other two. “An effort of will—remember? Let’s see if Simon’s right—let’s see if we’re special. I’m taking this bastard back to the farm. The sofa should be right over there.”

He pointed ahead of them.

“Can you see it—can you feel it?”

The stone walls wavered, showing the dingy farmhouse interior beyond.

Galloway wailed and stamped a huge foot. Great wings beat overhead, sending air whistling through the ruins.

“The chair is over there,” Grainger shouted, pointing again.

“That carpet’s filthy,” Alan added.

“And that wallpaper has got to go,” Sandy said, laughing.

The farmhouse filled in around them, and Galloway seemed to be shrinking, growing less sure of himself.

“Dave Galloway, you’re nicked,” Grainger said softly as the farmhouse walls grew solid.

“Not yet, wee man,” Galloway shouted and ran forward, head lowered, bellowing like an angry bull. He hit Grainger full on the weak side of his body. White pain flared. Somewhere a swan barked.

The walls of the ruin started to show through, just as Galloway wrapped his arms around Grainger and squeezed, hard. Something tore in his wounded shoulder; the pain was too much—Grainger fell into a black place full of emptiness and quiet.

The last thing he heard was Alan shouting.

22

Alan stood in the farmhouse, staring at the spot where Grainger—and Galloway—had been a second earlier. He hadn’t even had time to react to Galloway’s charge. One second they were in the ruins, the next, back in the cramped room, the smell of bleach and dust almost overwhelming coming so suddenly after breathing the clear air of the cliff tops.

“No!” he shouted. He grabbed Sandy’s hand, squeezing tight enough for her to gasp in pain. “Come on—concentrate—we’ve got to get back.”

He tried to conjure up the image of the ruin, of Galloway and the bird, but the farmhouse walls stayed staunchly solid.

“John!”

The room rang, but there was no reply.

“Can I have my hand back?” Sandy said and it was only when he released his grip that he saw how hard he’d held her—she had to flex her fingers to coax the blood back into them.

He stomped on the floor, then pounded on the wall, hard enough to graze two knuckles, as if he might force himself back to the other side. But it was all to no avail.

“It’s the bird,” Sandy said softly. “The Cobbe is blocking us. I can feel it.”

Alan hit the wall again, leaving a long smear of blood on the wallpaper.

“Aren’t we supposed to be the Chosen Ones—special fuckers? We need to get back there—John’s in trouble.”

“I think we’re stuck here,” Sandy replied, tugging Alan away from the wall. “At least until the Cobbe’s attention is drawn elsewhere. And even then, Galloway and it together might be too strong for just two of us.”

That made Alan pause. He sucked at his grazed knuckles before replying.

“You mean we might never get back?”

Sandy nodded.

“I’ve noticed it the last few times I crossed over—there’s been something blocking me, getting stronger—it must have been Galloway. And now that he’s taken the fifth girl, I can’t even manage to get the walls to shimmer. We have to consider that we might really be stuck back here permanently.”

Alan headed for the Scotch on the table in front of the sofa, downing a swig straight from the bottle and rubbing a few drops on the wounds on his hands. Sandy walked over, took the bottle from him, and knocked back a hefty swig of her own.

“John,” Alan shouted. “Bring us through.”

There was no reply.

“Let’s try again,” he said. “We’ve got to keep trying.”

They both closed their eyes, and Alan tried to wish himself back to help his brother.

Nothing happened—the room stayed resolutely solid.

“Simon!” Sandy shouted, and closed her eyes. “Concentrate on the balcony—the table of food.”

Alan tried to visualize the fortress, the tall thin man and the view over the plain to the cliff tops—but his mind kept circling back to John, grappling with Galloway. His brother’s plight was too big in his mind to allow much of anything else to get in. No matter how he tried, the room stayed solid, the only smell the taint of bleach and dry dust.

“Shit. There must be another way,” he said, reaching for the Scotch again. Sandy took the bottle from him and put it on the table.

“That’s not going to help,” she said. “We need clear heads.”

Alan was about to argue, but there was something in her eyes that told him that might not be the best idea.

“So what can we do?” he said. “If we’re so fucking special, why are we stuck here?”

“I’m as lost as you are. We’re the only three that I know of with the power,” she said. “And I don’t know why we have it.”

Alan remembered something Simon had said before they parted.

“In exile—that’s what Simon said. There are some of his folk here. They’ll surely have a way to get back?”

Sandy shook her head.

“If there are, I’ve never seen one. They’ll be in hiding, keeping a low profile lest they get discovered. We might never find them.”

She turned away, lost in thought, and while her back was turned Alan took another swig from the whisky.

“Finding people that don’t want to be found is kind of what I do,” he said. “And I will find them. I’m not leaving John over there.”

Sandy walked over and put a hand on his shoulder.

“He might be dead already—or it might be better for him if he is? You saw what Galloway was becoming…”

Alan brushed her off.

“I won’t hear any of that shite. I’m getting him back. Right now.”

Alan made for the door and had his hand on the doorknob before she called him back.

“You’re wanted for murder,” she said. “And you’re not exactly dressed for the city. You’re going to need my help.”

* * *

The clapped-out car was still in the farmyard, but Sandy had a better idea—she led Alan to a black SUV that was parked round the back out of sight.

“Tinted windows,” she said, tapping the windshield. “Perfect for keeping you out of sight until we come up with a new plan.”

Alan looked back to the farmhouse.

“It feels like I’m abandoning him,” he said.

“I think he’d prefer you to actually be doing something, rather than sitting on that sofa in there drinking too much Scotch?”

He couldn’t argue with that. He transferred their luggage from the other car, taking extra care with the laptop—he had a feeling he was going to need it soon—and got in the passenger seat.

“So where are we headed?”

“I’ve got a flat in Glasgow—we’ll regroup there. You can keep your head down, and I’ll do any legwork that’s needed. I’ve got some ideas where to start, but that can wait until we’re safely back in town.”

John was surprised to look at the clock and see that it was early in the morning, the sun only just coming up. He remembered that it had been daylight on the other side when they crossed over, despite it being night at the farm.

“There’s a time differential, isn’t there?”

She started up the car and drove out of the farmyard.

“It’s a different length of day altogether—about twenty hours over there. And since you spent a full day and more there, you’ll probably have a bit of jet-lag.”

“Narnia-lag. That’s all I need,” he replied.

He wanted to pound the dashboard in frustration. For all he knew his brother was dead already—either that or beaten and suffering. The fact that he could do nothing to help gnawed away at him like toothache.

Sandy took a pack of smokes from the glove compartment. She lit up and the sickly smell of menthol quickly filled the car

“You offered John a story for a smoke,” he said as they turned onto the main road—it was quiet with no traffic apart from them. “Tell me.”

“You can have a short version—the full story will have to wait—in ten minutes we’ll hit the rush hour traffic into town and I’ll have to concentrate.”

She sucked a long drag of smoke, and thought before starting.

“I told you about my crossover on Salisbury Plain—my next one was several months later. I was up on Benbecula on training, doing night guard duty—just me, a long sandy beach, and the stars and seagulls for company. Or so I thought.

“I was having a fly smoke when the light seemed to change. I looked up… and a pink moon looked back at me. For a second I thought someone might have slipped some waccy-baccy into my smokes. Then someone spoke to me.

“’Who the hell are you?’

“I was standing in a high place, on a ledge looking out over a plain to cliffs beyond—you know the spot yourself now. And it was Simon who spoke—that was our first meeting.”

She stopped to take more puffs from her cigarette before going on.

“That first time, Simon was as bemused as I was—no one, to his knowledge, had ever crossed over without using the thin spot in the ruins, or without the Cobbe knowing about it. As for me, I was mainly wondering how the hell to get back before I got another bollocking from the lieutenant.

“Simon made me promise to keep going back—I think he wanted to study me, to see if he could do my trick himself. Then he showed me how to focus my concentration—just a couple of yoga techniques, enough for me to blink, and be back at my post on Benbecula.

“Since then I’ve been back and forward a couple of dozen times. Simon’s had me doing small errands for him over here—a visit to Innerpeffray, a trip to Orkney, nothing sinister. Then, a couple of days back—when Galloway started to take the girls over—Simon asked me to keep an eye on the thin spot on Loch Leven. That’s how our paths crossed—I was up on the hill above you at the sanctuary, and I followed you back into town afterward.”

She stopped.

“That’s it?” Alan said. “But…”

“No time for buts,” she replied. “We’ll be in heavy traffic any minute now. It’s nearly eight—turn on the radio and check the news. There might be developments we need to know about.”

They were the second news item—another child missing, police manhunt is continuing, an arrest is imminent—happy-clappy stuff that Alan recognized as mostly meaningless filler to cover the fact that they were no closer to catching the perpetrator. The only new fact—and it wasn’t anything he needed to know—was that the fifth victim had been taken inside a store in Princes Street while trying on a new dress.

“There’s going to be a sixth,” Alan said softly. “And soon.”

“I know,” Sandy replied. “But there’s no way we can second-guess Galloway on that. We can’t watch every young girl in the country.”

Alan punched the dashboard.

“We shouldn’t have left the farm—the way might open at any time.”

“I don’t think so,” Sandy replied. “It felt…shut. There’s no other way to describe it.”

“And you’re the expert now, are you?”

She slammed on the brakes and brought them to a halt at the roadside.

“I’m the nearest thing you’ve fucking got. Now do you want help or do you want to whine some more? I could let you off here if you like?”

Alan saw, too late, that she was under stress just as much as he was. There was definitely a longer story waiting to be told—but it would indeed have to wait.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just want to find John again. I’ll take all the help I can get.”

She drove away from the roadside.

“That’s better,” she said. “And better still, coffee and breakfast are only twenty minutes away.”