The Firehills (5 page)

Sam looked Charly in the eyes for several seconds, then
said, “Do you think, after you have faced the Malifex and his servants and
defeated them, that there is a single game left worth playing?” He sounded suddenly very grown
up, and Charly understood exactly what he meant by “different.”

“I guess not,” she replied sheepishly.

Sam stared at the ground for a moment, then turned to
Charly with a tight smile. “Sorry, but you did ask.”

“Mmmm, yes, I did, didn’t I? Come on.” Charly
decided it was better to drop the subject and jumped to her feet. “Let’s go
and explore!”

Sam looked at her for a moment and then, with a tired
smile, replied, “OK. Let’s explore. Lead the way.”

Along the streets of the Old Town they came, in twos and
threes, long overcoats trailing like black wings behind them. The ancient
Sidhe, the Faery Folk, were gathering for the hunt.

Down on the seafront, the Lady Una sat on the wooden
backrest of a bench near the boating lake, her booted feet placed demurely
together on the seat. She had exchanged her black wedding dress for something
more practical—a black leather motorbike jacket and a flowing, layered skirt
of purple velvet. Her mane of black hair blew around her face in the cool
breeze from the sea as she waited. Soon they came, fifteen or twenty of them,
arriving in small groups, casually loitering around the bench in silence. When
all were assembled, the Lady Una favored them with her characteristic smirk and
jumped lightly from the bench. With a
click-click
of stiletto heels she paced off along the seafront, and her subjects followed
behind.

“Wow!” exclaimed Sam, “It’s heaving!”

They had left behind the relative quiet of High Street and
plunged into the brightly colored chaos of holiday Hastings. The streets echoed
to the rumble of powerful engines as bikers converged on the town. Over the
years, the bikers had become a local tradition, and now hundreds of them
paraded their machines along the promenade. The riders wove in and out of
processions of buses pouring out their tourists. Here and there a knot of
morris dancers in bells and ribbons pushed their way through the crowds,
jingling and merry. The air was heavy with the smell of fried food and the
salty tang of the sea. Sam found himself smiling, caught up, despite himself,
in the holiday atmosphere.

“Come on!” shouted Charly. “This way.” She plunged
off across the road, dodging in and out of the slow-moving motorbikes. Sam did
his best to follow.

Charly stood for a moment on the opposite pavement,
watching impatiently as Sam tried to copy her dash through the traffic. He was
right. He did seem different. Distracted, as if he was listening to something
no one else could hear. Looking around, she noticed a group of strangely clad
figures clustered around a bench.
Weirdos,
she
thought, taking in the nose rings and dyed hair. A few kids in her school
dressed like that, when they could get away with it. Loners, mostly. Quiet
misfits who wrote poetry and pretended to dabble in the occult. Charly, as a
newly initiated Wiccan, had a very low opinion of dabblers.

She looked back and found that Sam had made it across the
road and was gazing around in a vaguely bemused sort of way. “Come
on,
” she groaned. “You’re so
slow!
” With that, she set off along a road bearing a
signpost to the strangely named Rock-a-Nore. As she turned to go, she noticed
that the Goths around the bench were also on the move. For no apparent reason,
this made her feel uneasy.

“What are these, then?” asked Sam, who had appeared at
her side. He pointed to the buildings around them. They were among the tall
black sheds she had seen from the car when they first arrived.

“They’re the net shops,” replied Charly.

“Right.” Sam nodded. “And that’ll be . . . where
you buy nets?”

“Close, Einstein, but you’re guessing. They mostly
sell fish from them now. But it used to be where the sailors stored things,
fishing nets and stuff. They were only allowed so much space each, so they
built upward.”

Sam’s eyes tracked up the face of the nearest net shop.
Black-tarred planks loomed above him—three stories, each with a small door,
the upper two opening out onto empty space. They seemed rather sinister, as if
something were hidden behind the doors that shunned the daylight.

“Cheerful choice of color,” he muttered to himself.

“Come on,” said Charly once more and pulled him by the
arm.

They made their way between the somber rows of huts,
picking their way through piles of bright blue plastic net and coils of orange
rope. Charly kept glancing behind them.

“You OK?” asked Sam.

“Mmmm,” replied Charly. “Sam . . .?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know any Goths?”

“Goths?”

“Yes—you know, the vampire look? Black clothes, pale
skin, bad taste in music?”

“I know what Goths are. We’ve got them at home. In
fact, there were some hanging around our house when we set off yesterday. But
no, I don’t know any Goths. Why?”

“No reason. Come on.”

She set off once more. Sam frowned at her back for a
moment, then he called after her, “You are a strange girl, Charly!”

He hurried to catch up and found that they were on the
beach. From the back of the net shops, the land dropped sharply to the sea.
Here the fishing boats rested among rusting winches and old fish heads, as if a
freak tide had left them stranded. They sat high on the beach, a row of
compact, muscular vessels, their bright paintwork streaked with rust. Between
them were scattered the hulks of ancient bulldozers, collapsed in the act of
hauling the boats from the grasp of the sea.

“There’s no harbor,” explained Charly as they
wandered between the ancient hulls, “so they use the bulldozers to winch the
boats up onto the beach. Sweet, aren’t they?”

Sam looked unconvinced.

“My favorite’s called
Young
Flying Fish.
” She gestured over to a pug-nosed little craft hung with
faded orange floats and topped off with a jaunty red and white life belt.

“Uh-oh.”

“What is it?”

Charly looked suddenly anxious. “You know when I asked
you about Goths?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t look now, but there’s a big gang of
them, heading this way.”

Sam turned. Striding through the old plastic fish crates
came a group of dark figures led by a young woman in a leather jacket. She was
stunning—delicate features, flawless skin, and a mane of dark hair that
streamed out behind her as she walked. Heavy boots crunched on gravel as she
and her companions made their way purposefully toward Sam and Charly.

“Look,” began Sam, “I don’t know what’s going on
here, but I think we should get going. Charly?”

But Charly had already disappeared around the planked
belly of one of the boats. Sam hurried to follow. Behind him, he heard the
slither of stones as the blackclad youths broke into a run. Sam caught up with
Charly at full tilt and grabbed her by the arm as he passed.

“Come on!” he bellowed. “Get us out of here!”

“This way!” Charly dodged left, into the maze of net
shops, dragging Sam after her. Darting from side to side, she led him between
the towering black sheds and out into the street. Looking back, Sam could see
close to fifteen Goths thundering toward them. The girl was in the lead, a look
of savage delight on her face.

“Ooops!” shouted Charly. “Trouble!”

Sam looked in the direction she indicated. Perhaps ten
more Goths were headed their way from the town center. Charly grabbed Sam’s
arm and pulled him in the opposite direction, out along Rock-a-Nore Road.

“Have you got any money?” she shouted.

“A bit. Why?”

“We’re going for a ride!”

Up ahead, Sam could see a narrow, sloping gully in the
towering cliff face that formed the backdrop to the street. Nestled at the foot
of this gully was what looked like the top half of a small blue-and-white
streetcar. Sam was dragged through a gateway and up past a sign that said: East
Hill Cliff Railway. Dodging in and out of a scattering of slowly moving
tourists, Sam and Charly skidded to a halt at the end of a short line. In ones
and twos, the people they had passed on their way in wandered up and joined the
line behind them. And then the Goths appeared. They had slowed to a walk and
took their place at the back of the line, unpleasantly close behind. Charly
risked a glance back and found herself looking into the baleful gaze of the
girl in the leather jacket. Their eyes locked, and Charly’s head began to
spin. The girl smirked at her discomfort, and Charly felt a wave of anger sweep
over her. She broke the eye contact and hissed at Sam, “Get your money
ready.”

Sam rooted around in his pocket and found enough
change
for the fare. They shuffled another place forward in the line. Ahead,
Sam could
see their transport—a small, squat vehicle, like a cable car. Unlike a
cable
car, however, it ran on rails that followed the steep slope cut into
the cliff. The single carriage was rapidly filling up, and it
looked as though only a handful of spaces were left. At last, they
reached the
ticket office. “Two half fares, please,” asked Sam.

“One of you will ’ave ter wait,” said the man behind
the counter. “Only one space left.”

Charly went pale and glanced behind. A wave of malice
washed over her again as she met the eyes of the darkhaired girl.

“But we’re together,” pleaded Sam. “Please?”

The man thought for a moment. “Oh, go on, then.” He
smiled. “Don’t want ter stand in the way of young love.”

Sam went pink, but he handed over his money with relief.
Grabbing Charly’s arm, he dragged her toward the carriage, and they piled
inside. Squashed together in the sweaty throng of tourist bodies, they peered
out through the glass as the Cliff Railway whisked them upward. Charly beamed
down at the pale faces of the Goths and waved maliciously.

“Well,” breathed Sam at last. “What do think that
was all about?”

“You’re asking me? I thought you might know.”

“Nope. We’ll have to ask Amergin.”

The carriage finished its smooth ascent, and the doors
opened. With relief, Charly and Sam spilled out into the fresh air and made
their way out onto the grassy summit of East Hill.

“We’d better make our way back down fast,” said
Charly.

“The next carriage load is probably on its way up by
now.”

“Do you think they’ll follow us?” asked Sam.

“How should I know?” Charly exclaimed in exasperation.
“I don’t even know why they chased us in the first place. Although that
girl . . .” her voice trailed off. They followed a path across the brow of
the hill, heading for the steep, meandering steps that led back down toward the
Old Town. Sam paused, looking down at the sprawl of buildings far below, the
tiny boats hauled up onto the beach, the shadowy towers of the net shops, and
farther along the shore, the multicolored bustle of the town. He felt a sudden
breeze and turned around.

An unseen force was lashing the short grass of the
hilltop. Here and there, cigarette butts and discarded tickets swirled around
in frantic spirals. Suddenly—and Sam at first doubted his own eyes—suddenly
they were surrounded by the Goths who had pursued them from the beach. Arranged
in a loose semicircle, the black-clad figures stood in silence, as if newly
sprung from trapdoors in the grass. Sam and Charly moved closer together. The
girl in the leather jacket raised one hand, palm upward and fingers curled like
claws. Once more the breeze sprang up, not swirling now but blowing steadily
off the land and out to sea. Gradually, the breeze increased in strength, until
Sam and Charly were buffeted by its force and had to lean forward into the gale
to keep their balance. Sam glanced behind at the dizzying drop down to
Rock-a-Nore Road. The black-haired girl abruptly clenched her fist and brought
her elbow sharply down by her side. A savage gust smashed into Charly and Sam,
drawing tears from their eyes and making them stagger backward. Charly felt one
foot slip on the grassy edge of the cliff and clutched at Sam’s arm.

Sam glanced backward once more. “Charly,” he hissed, “you’re going to have to trust me now.”

Charly gave him an uncomprehending look, then shrieked in
terror as he launched himself backward into the void, dragging her after him.

And then, with a familiar swirling sensation in her mind,
Charly felt the wind beneath her wings and screamed once more, this time with
the high, plaintive cry of a gull. Together, she and Sam wheeled on the warm
updraft from the sea, white wings flexing and rowing the air. Sam turned and
plunged, and Charly followed him, down to a concealed yard behind a seafront
café. Again, she felt the swirling sensation of dislocation, and she was back
in her human form.

“Don’t
do
that!” She
laughed, exhilarated and relieved, slapping Sam on the arm.

“Sorry.” He grinned back. “You OK?”

Charly nodded.

“Come on, then. We’ve got a lunch date.”

They stepped out through a narrow passageway into the
crowded streets and found themselves close to the Mermaid Restaurant. Megan and
Amergin were already seated at a white plastic table, four steaming plates of
fish and chips in front of them. With a wave, Charly and Sam made their way
through the crowd and took their seats.

“Mum,” began Charly, tucking into a chip, “you will
never guess what just happened to us—are you two OK?”

Charly sensed a certain coldness in the air.

“Oh, yes,” replied Megan, “we’ve had a great time.
We’ve been on the choo-choo train, haven’t we?” She favored Amergin with
a sour look.

“We can go to the museum this afternoon,” said Amergin
with the look of a man in the doghouse.