The Slanted Worlds (6 page)

“Bloody East End copping it again.” The sergeant grabbed him. “Here.” He tugged out a key and unlocked the cell door. “Inside.”

Before Jake knew it, he was through the dark slot and slipping on the wet stone floor, the familiar stink of urine and mold around him.

He dived back to the door, pushed his face against the grilled opening. “What if we get bombed?”

“Pray you don't, son. After all, they're your lot.”

The grille was slammed shut.

He turned, and stared into the gloom. At least he was still close to the mirror. He wasn't on his way to some military prison the other side of England. And he had the bracelet.

Then he saw the other prisoner.

A tramp maybe. A shadowy figure anyway, lying on the bench against the wall, legs stretched out, wrapped in a coat of muddy grays and greens.

Jake slid down and sat on the filthy floor, knees up. He could just sleep now.

Sleep for hours.

But the figure said, “Not even pleased to see me then, Jake.”

He didn't move for a second. Then he raised his head and stared.

Gideon lounged on the bench, back against the wall. His ivory skin was dark with smeared soot. His long hair tangled in the collar of his pied coat.

Jake was too astonished to move. “Where the hell did you come from? How did you get here?”

“Through the Summerland.” Gideon stretched his legs out. “And believe me, it wasn't easy.”

“But . . . how did you find me?”

“I searched. There are ways.”

“Searched? It must have taken you . . .”

“No time at all.” Gideon shook his head. His green eyes narrowed in amusement. “You still don't get it, do you. In Summer's land there is no time.
No time.
”

He scrambled up. “Venn sent you? But . . . she . . . Summer . . . my God, what did he have to promise her?”

Gideon looked at the floor. “Summer doesn't know anything about it. It was Sarah's idea.”

For the first time in a long time a flicker of hope warmed Jake like a shaft of light. As a bomb fell streets away, shuddering dust down from the ceiling, he grinned.

“So Sarah's back,” he said.

As if that could make everything all right.

Where Janus obtained the mirror is uncertain. It is thought that among his earliest advisers was a man brought in great secrecy from a high security unit in the environs of what had once been Tokyo. ZEUS has no records of this man, and no images. But with him were transported various objects carefully packaged. The guards who accompanied him were never seen again. The consignment appeared on no flight details and was never reported in any customs document.

The package was delivered to London Central.

Immediately after this the tremors and earthquakes began.

Illegal ZEUS transmission; biography of Janus

S
ARAH WOKE
very slowly.

For a long moment she lay curled among the white sheets, trying to hold on to the flavor of her dream, but already it had dissolved to frail, wispy remnants.

Of kneeling here, in this room. In her own time, with the sky raining on her through the charred rafters, and ivy smothering every wall with its glossy leaves. She had been hiding treasures in the small space under the floorboards—a seashell, a doll, a child's drawing of a red house and a yellow sun crayoned with spikes of light.

She sat up in the bed and gazed around.

In that End Time, over a hundred years from now, the Abbey would be a burned-out ruin, oaks growing through its tiled hall and up the broken staircase. She and her parents had lived—no, would live!—in a small cottage of salvaged stone and charred timbers, built into one of the corners of the cloister.

It was a bitter memory. It hurt her. She swung her feet out of the bedclothes and dangled them over the side. The room was dim; she slipped down and padded to the window, tugging back the heavy velvet curtains, wanting light, and air.

The morning was still.

The storm Summer had created had raged all night. The bright spring was shattered. Bluebells lay broken, new buds and catkins torn down by her spite. The morning was dark with cold rain, the trees gloomy through the drizzle, boughs tossing in the wind. Sarah saw again how the Abbey was a tiny sanctuary in the heart of the deep Wood; how the oaks and beeches rose up on each side, so that only from up here, high in the attic, could you glimpse the hills beyond, and Dartmoor, a gray shadow in the north.

She took down the old red dressing gown Piers had lent her and tugged it around herself. Then she climbed on the window seat and opened the casement. Cold wind gusted in, rippling the curtains with its salt tang of the distant sea.

She allowed herself a wry smile.

She was glad to be back. Because after all, she was a Venn; this was her country.

This was her house.

Under her foot the floorboard creaked. She looked down at it, and another fragment of the dream broke in her memory. Her mother cooking. Her father outside, chopping wood. And then Janus's voice had come suddenly from the old wind-up radio, breaking the music. He had said
“I own the world now. I am the world now”
and her mother had turned it off with a shudder, saying “No! Never!” but that hadn't stopped him; he had crawled and squeezed out of the radio as it had transformed into Wharton's small red car, and there he had stood in the kitchen, a lank-haired man in blue spectacles, his uniform dark and neat.

“I'm afraid the time has come,”
he'd said.

And the last few trucks in the world had roared up the drive, a convoy of them.

She always woke up then. It was as if her mind wouldn't let her see the horror that followed. Her mother being dragged away, her screams. Dad running full pelt round the corner of the house with the axe still in his hand, face-first into the stun blast that sent him crashing.

The bruising thud of his body onto the mud.

And the careless way they had carried him, one arm dangling down.

She set her lips firmly and turned away from the window. This wasn't helping. Her parents were alive, would always be alive, somewhere in that distant future. And only she could help them.

She bent quickly, before she lost courage, and opened the hiding place under the boards. There was the small black pen she had brought from the future, and the gray notebook. These and the diamond brooch she had given Venn and the half of the Greek coin Summer had taken were all that remained of that world. She took the pen out.

On its cap was the enigmatic letter
Z
. The members of ZEUS had used these for their secret correspondence, but no one was left to answer her.

None of her friends.

She uncapped the pen. For a long moment her hand hesitated; then she wrote quickly, savagely.

Is anyone there?

Janus's reply was so prompt she drew in a sharp breath.

I WAS HOPING YOU WOULD BE BACK SOON, SARAH. I'VE BEEN WAITING SO PATIENTLY.

She loathed this. It felt like betrayal. But she had to know.

What's happening there? The black mirror.

. . . HAS NOT YET DESTROYED THE WORLD! AFTER ALL, YOU HAVE BEEN GONE ONLY A FEW MOMENTS, SARAH.

She stared at the scrawled lines on the paper.

Another appeared, swiftly unraveling.

I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE LONELY IN THAT PAST LAND. ALL BY YOURSELF. SO I HAVE SENT YOU MY CHILDREN.

“Sarah!” Wharton's knock made her drop the pen with a start. “Are you up? Piers says breakfast.”

“Fine. Be there now.”

His footsteps creaked away along the corridor.

She wrote:
What do you mean?

WHY DON'T YOU LOOK AND SEE.

A sudden gust of wind rippled the pages and made the casement bang open.

She leaned out and grabbed it, and then stopped, astonished.

On the lawn, just at the edge of the Wood, three children were playing. Three small boys, dressed in old-fashioned school uniforms, their faces identical. Triplets. As she stared, one bent down, the others leapfrogging his back. Then they all stood and looked up at the window, a silent threesome.

“Who are you?” she said. “Where . . .”

They turned, as one. Even as she called “Wait” they were gone, walking calmly into the Wood, though the last one turned back as he ducked under the dark branches.

And waved.

“Stand back!” The sergeant's key turned quickly in the lock. “And stop that bleedin' racket!”

As he burst in, another bomb hit so close that the walls shuddered. Dust and plaster crashed from the ceiling.

“Right Wilde, move. All prisoners evacuated.”

The cell was dim.

A flicker in the corner of his eye. He turned, and swore. Because there was the boy spy. And next to him, like his shadow, a spirit so pale and thin the sergeant thought at once of his own dear dead brother, Albert, glimpsed years ago cold as marble in the narrow bed.

Then they were on him. He opened his mouth to yell—a filthy gag was shoved in. He fought furiously but the beggars were fast—and the spy knew a few fiendish Eastern tricks too, because his feet were knocked from under him by a savage kick, and his arms whipped back and bound even as he struggled.

They trussed him tight.

Then Jake sat on his chest and said, “Keep still. And listen.”

The drone of aircraft, high above.

“I'm sorry to leave you here. I hope you'll be okay. But I have to go. I want you to tell Allenby that I'm not a spy—he's got it all wrong. I just walked in on this. Understand?”

The sergeant swore again, furious and indistinct. Then his eyes slid with fear. Gideon leaned over him, a strange flint knife in his hand. “Why don't we make sure he stays silent.”

“Are you crazy?” Jake stared in disbelief.

“If he gets free . . .”

“You've been with the Shee too long. You're turning into one of them.”

“I'm as human as you are, mortal!” Gideon's eyes were bright and fierce as a bird's.

For a moment he and Jake shared a bitter doubt.

Then Gideon stood abruptly. “Do what you like. But let's go.”

In the doorway Jake winced as the building shook again. He was worried about leaving the man here during the air raid, but there was no choice—he had to get away. “Sorry,” he said. “Really sorry.”

He slammed the cell door, and locked it.

Then, after a second of bitter hesitation, he turned and tossed the keys in through the grille.

“What are you doing!” Gideon grabbed him. “He'll untie himself . . .”

“I'm being human. We'll be long gone. But first, I have to find that suitcase.”

Wharton strolled into the kitchen just as Piers was saying “. . . must never know anything about it. But the teacher—”

“What about the teacher?”

Standing by the fire, Venn glanced up. His cold, clear gaze was an icy chill; it seemed to weigh Wharton in a second's acute scrutiny. Then, surprisingly, he said, “I think the teacher is a man who can be trusted.”

Piers sighed. He was sitting on the inglenook bench, absurdly cross-legged, wearing a white chef's apron splashed liberally with what looked like tomato sauce. His small alert face was twisted in thought. Then he shrugged. “Your call, Excellency.”

“Trusted with what?” Wharton demanded.

Venn didn't answer. Instead he went to the door and opened it, looking cautiously up the dim paneled corridor. He shut the door and came back, one of the seven black cats pacing behind him. Striding to the fire and staring at it, his back to Wharton, he said, “There's something you should know. Unless . . . Has Jake ever spoken to you about the coin?”

“What coin?”

Piers scrambled up. “I'll make some tea. Or coffee?”

“He hasn't told you.” Venn turned. “So he has some discretion.”

Wharton went and sat at the table. He pushed the unwashed dishes aside and said, “Coffee please, Piers. So maybe you should tell me, then.”

Venn was wearing his usual dark jacket; his hair was dragged back with an easy carelessness that Wharton envied hopelessly. To Wharton's surprise, he came and sat opposite, leaning his long arms on the table, his fingers interlocked.

“The night Sarah left. Christmas Day. On that night the man called Maskelyne told Jake and me something important about the mirror.”

Wharton nodded. “The scarred man. He's a strange character. He knows more than he's letting on.”

“I agree. Clearly his connection to the mirror is an old one. He owned it before Symmes, remember. He traveled through it unprotected—with no bracelet—and just about survived. He hungers to get it back.”

“Have you seen him since then?” Wharton asked.

“Not a sign.” Piers put a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. “Not a whisker. Not on the cameras, not on the estate, not even in the village. As if he's vanished from the earth. And that girl, Rebecca, with him.”

“Never mind her.” Irritated, Venn watched Wharton add sugar and stir, savoring the aroma. “Maskelyne told us that the obsidian mirror cannot be destroyed.
Not by force or fire, by wind or water. There is only one way to destroy the mirror.
Those were his very words.”

Wharton frowned, sipping. “And that is? By the way, mega coffee, Piers.”

Piers smiled, modest.

“For God's sake! Will you pay attention!” Venn's frail patience snapped. “He told us that there is an artifact shaped like a golden coin, a Greek stater with the head of Zeus on it. This device contains enough energy to destroy the mirror. He said that the coin had been cut in half and the halves separated in time and space, so that they might never come together accidentally. God knows what happened to the left half. But the right half is here.”

Wharton was staring now. He put the cup down so sharply it clunked in the saucer. “Oh my God. The one Sarah had? On a golden chain?”

“Precisely.” Venn's fingers tapped the table. “She brought it with her from the World's End. It was the same half coin that Symmes was given, to lead him to the mirror.”

“But . . .” Wharton was so agitated he had to stand up.
“But she gave it to Summer!”