Werewolf Parallel (19 page)

Cameron’s trainers scrunched along the beach. The night sky above him was dark blue, and the waves that hit the shore sounded oddly muffled. Where was he? How had he got here? The answer seemed just out of reach, like when you try to name a song half heard on the radio, and the lyrics nag you all day long.

He turned his questions into a rhythm, beaten out by his trainers on the pebbles. Where – am – I? I’m – on – a – beach. Which – beach – where? I – don’t – have – a – scooby. No. No, that wasn’t helping. He stopped and looked all round him. He could see water, sand and pebbles, and a scrubby sort of headland with a yellowish glow breaking through the grass. The air smelled of salt and of something slightly rotten. Perhaps a dead bird or animal was lying on a rock somewhere, just out of sight. He decided to head towards the light. As he scrambled up the shallow cliff that separated the beach from the land, the glow resolved itself into the headlamps of a familiar white Ford Transit. Cameron broke into a run.

“Dad? Where are you? Dad?” His voice seemed to vanish into the night, the words coming out dull and flat. The driver’s seat was empty, the inside of the cab its usual mess of newspapers, roadmaps and old cassette tapes. He tugged at the door handle but
it refused to click. He had more luck round the back: one of the rear doors was unlocked. Cameron yanked it open and ducked into the darkened interior, taking in the familiar scent of mothballs, oil, and old fish-supper wrappers.

The back of the van, usually crammed to the roof with furniture, was almost empty. A crumpled shape slung in the corner turned out to be his dad’s duffel bag. Kneeling, Cameron unknotted the bag’s drawstrings and examined the contents: a pair of his dad’s jeans, some T-shirts, a jumper… Tucked in-between was a scattering of photographs he recognised from the walls at home. Here he was as a wee boy, building spaceships from Lego. Then a shot of him and Dad on the dodgems. Next, him and Mum at a picnic, back before she left. She was holding out a plate of sandwiches, her face pretty but sad. What were the photos doing in the bag? Where was Dad going that he needed to take them?

A movement in the corner of his eye caught Cameron’s attention. Something had passed the windscreen, breaking the light from the headlamps. It might have been an animal, but the shape felt all wrong for that. He peered through the gap between the front seats and out of the windscreen. This time he saw it: a figure in a long dark cloak – its hood pulled down to hide the wearer’s face – hurrying towards him across the sand.

Suddenly terrified, Cameron scrambled to the rear of the van. He grabbed the door and pulled it closed as quietly and quickly as he could. There was no way to lock the rear doors from inside, but he figured if
he hunkered down by the duffel bag then maybe he wouldn’t be seen in the shadowy interior.

There was no sound from outside. On the beach Cameron’s every footstep had been reported by the pebbles, but up here on the grass there was nothing to let him know if someone was coming. He shifted slightly in his crouch and his kneecap cracked. Cameron swore under his breath. It sounded like a gunshot to him – would anyone have heard outside?

There was still no indication of movement. What was he to do? He could pull himself over the seats into the front of the van, but he didn’t know whether the key was still in the ignition. The front door had been locked, so it didn’t seem likely… He had to chance it. If the key was there, he’d start the van, and try to drive it. If not, he could open the driver’s door and make a run for it into the night. He tensed himself for action.

A creak from the rear door gave him his cue. It eased its way open, and Cameron just saw a set of long white fingers creep their way around the edge before he flung himself at the gap between the front seats and the roof. The leg of his jeans caught on the gear stick as he vaulted over. He tugged it free. Something grabbed at his other foot. Hoarse breath rasped in his ear. He struggled and yanked, but the bony grip was tight upon his ankle…

Cameron woke, drenched in sweat. All at once he knew where he’d been: the beach at Weymss where they’d found his dad. He tried to sit up, and found the bedsheets had wound themselves into a knot around his legs. His feet fizzed with pins and needles. He
shook them free, drew his knees up to his chest, and hugged himself.

Cameron had dreamt a lot about his dad since he’d died. Those dreams were usually vague and sad, but this one seemed so real. He could still half smell the sour and salty air in his nostrils…

Don’t think about it.
He forced himself to lie back down. From his pillow, he could see 01.24 in blue glowing numbers on his mobile. There was still an awful lot of night to go. He reached for his headphones, but of course they weren’t there. His mini-system was stranded on a table by the window, near the only free socket. When he’d moved in, Grandma Ives had given him this huge upstairs room to himself. Unlike the ordered neatness of the rest of her house, it was clear she’d been using it for storage. There were boxes and books piled on every surface. He’d even found a stuffed mongoose – its furry limbs raised up, ready to pounce – lurking in the clutter on top of the bed.

“That’s Monty,” Grandma Ives had explained. “Came from India. He’s been in the house for years and I can’t bring myself to throw him away. You don’t mind sharing?”

Cameron had examined the dead animal’s glassy eyes and yellow teeth. “I’ll cope. As long as he doesn’t bite.”

“You’re quite safe, unless you’re a snake.” She put the mongoose on top of a bureau, and Cameron later chucked a T-shirt over it. It snagged on the creature’s claws, but at least he didn’t have to look at it.

“It’ll take us a while to sort things out,” Grandma Ives had said, “but I hope we’ll find a way for you to be happy here.”

Over the course of the first week, they’d set to and cleared the room. Bit by bit Grandma Ives’ junk went out, and Cameron’s things moved in. Bags and boxes of CDs, books and clothes arrived, and his posters were stuck up over the old flowery wallpaper. His dad’s PC sat in the corner, gathering dust. It was doubly useless now, as Grandma Ives didn’t show any signs of getting broadband. There were still tons of things back at the old house, his dad’s stuff mainly. But Grandma Ives said that was a problem for another day.

Cameron turned over in bed. His mouth was dry, and every time he closed his eyes he had the feeling he was going to end up dreaming about the beach again. He decided to get up and get a glass of water. He swung himself from the bed, and grabbed a sweatshirt off the back of a chair.

Downstairs the kitchen light was on. Grandma Ives was up too. The old woman was wrapped in a green velvet dressing gown, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders in long silver strands. She was shaking flour into a large mixing bowl on the table.

Cameron didn’t know where to look. This was nothing like him and his dad in their T-shirts on a weekend morning, grunting at each other over their teacups and cereal bowls. He turned to go, but she’d already seen him.

“Good evening, Cameron. Or should I say good morning? What brings you down here?”

“I need a glass of water.”

“Well, help yourself. There’s cocoa on the shelf if you prefer. I find it calming after bad dreams.”

“Who said I had bad dreams?” A flush of anger ran through him. If anyone was to blame for his nightmare it was her, with her mad outrageous promise of bringing Dad back. She’d clammed up after he’d agreed to her plan, but the idea had been festering away at the back of his mind. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could easily forget.

“I just want a drink, that’s all. I’ll get it and go.”

“Bad dreams wouldn’t be unusual, given what you’ve gone through.” She held out her hands in a calming gesture. “That was all I meant.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Cameron sipped his water and watched as she began to stir the mixture in the basin.

“What are you doing?” he said eventually.

“I’m making dough for bread. I suffer from sleepless nights too. A little activity helps me relax.” She held out the wooden spoon to him and smiled. “You could stir this for me, if you like.”

“I guess.” Cameron took the spoon. It wasn’t like he was in a hurry to go back upstairs anyway.

“I don’t usually have a helper for my nocturnal bakery.” Grandma Ives collected a wooden board from the cupboard and began to cover it with flour. “Would you like a story, to help time pass?”

“If you want to,” he said guardedly. “Don’t you think I’m a bit old for bedtime stories?”

“Oh, this story won’t send you to sleep, far from it. It has a little to do with our earlier conversation. Shall I begin?”

Cameron shrugged.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Grandma Ives tipped the dough onto the board, and as she told her story, she began to knead. “The last trial for witchcraft was in 1727, did you know that?”

He shook his head, a little surprised at her choice of subject. Did she really think talk about witches was going to cure his insomnia?

“It’s more recent than people think,” the old lady continued. “Not long after, all of Europe began to look to Scotland and to Edinburgh for inspiration. There were new ideas about science, about philosophy, about engines for movement, about how the Earth came into being. They said it was a period of enlightenment, and superstition and the old belief in magic began to recede. Why do you think that might be?”

“I thought this was a story, not a history lesson,” Cameron grumbled.

“It’s always good to ask questions, Cameron. That’s how you find out how stories work.”

Cameron rubbed his eyes and reluctantly engaged his brain. “Ok. When you’re a kid, you believe in things like the tooth fairy and Santa and monsters under the bed. But when you get older, you stop. You realise they’re made up. Maybe that’s what happened? People just sort of grew up.”

“Good thinking. Completely wrong, of course, but nicely reasoned. How about this… Perhaps it wasn’t the people that changed. Perhaps it was the world?” She gave Cameron a very direct look.

“Go on.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You’re not boring me.”

“I’m so pleased.” Grandma Ives attacked the dough with renewed vigour. “There was once a great and powerful man called Alexander Mitchell. You won’t find him in the official history books. His family had for years held great power in their hands, both in this world and in the daemon world beyond—”

“The
daemon
world?”

“
Where dwell those creatures that are not man, no nor angel either
,” she recited. “Where do you think the monsters people used to believe in came from?”

“Ri-ight.” Cameron had the distinct impression this conversation was running away from him. “And this daemon world would be where exactly?”

Grandma Ives took her hands from the dough, rinsed them, and plucked some fruit from a tray on the counter. She set an orange on the table in front of Cameron.

“Imagine the Earth as a spinning sphere.” She added an apple, right next to the orange. “Imagine the daemon world as another sphere, occupying a fractionally different space.” She walked her fingertips from the top of the orange across to the apple. “The two were so close, at times you could step from one to the other.”

“But the world’s not really like that,” said Cameron dubiously.

“Oh? And how do you know that?”

“There’ve been spaceships up there. Satellites take pictures all the time. We’d know if there was another world nearby.”

Grandma Ives sighed. “Lower your head, so your chin touches the table.”

“Why?”

“Indulge me.”

Feeling a little daft, Cameron did as he was asked.

“How many fruits can you see?”

“Two.” The orange looked large and juicy, right before his nose. She lifted the apple, and put it directly behind the orange.

“And now how many?”

“Just one.”

“Which is what your rocket-ships and sputniks would see: the Earth alone in outer space.”

“But I
know
the apple’s still there!” he said stubbornly. “You’ve just hidden it.”

“Just as I
know
the daemon world exists alongside ours.” She stuck a finger under his chin and lifted it up. “You simply need the right perspective to see it.”

Cameron glowered, and rubbed flour from his neck. “That’s not fair.”

“Life rarely is.” She returned to kneading her dough. “Alexander Mitchell – of whom I was about to speak – didn’t care for the idea of dual human and daemon worlds at all. Far from being part of the natural order, he believed the daemon world was exerting a corrupting influence on its partner. He reasoned that if there was some way to free us from it permanently, we could evolve along a uniquely human path of science and rationality, and leave the dark days of magic well behind.

“Over in the daemon world, a mage called Astredo had been plotting along similar lines. He believed daemonkind would flourish best in a world of magic alone, untainted by man’s ideas. Together, Mitchell and Astredo contrived a plan to separate the worlds.”

“But if they’d always been so close,” said Cameron, toying with the orange, “wouldn’t that be really dangerous?”

“Insanely, stupidly so,” agreed Grandma Ives.

“So how were they going to do it, this mad plan of theirs?”

“They used their dark skills to find a fissure point, a magical fault line where the connection between the worlds was weak. By exerting enough force, they hoped to separate the worlds entirely. Mitchell’s fissure point was right here in Edinburgh, above Salisbury Crags on Arthur’s Seat.”

Cameron knew those hills. “Arthur’s Seat used to be a volcano, didn’t it? Millions of years ago.”

Grandma Ives nodded. “Whatever subterranean clash threw it from the Earth also uncovered the fault line the conspirators would exploit. With Astredo and his coven ready to channel their power from the daemon world, Mitchell called together his followers. It was a dreadful night, the sky black and moonless, and the wind howling around the cliffs. The men clutched their hats to their heads, and the women wrapped their shawls tightly. The air was so cold it chilled you to the bone.”