Ross Lawhead (4 page)

Dr. Fowler snorted and then smiled. “This is a joke . . . ,” she murmured.

“I'm talking about human interaction with giants in each of these cases,” Freya continued. “Not creation myths or rationalisations about the acts of nature. These are one-on-one encounters.”

A man in a blue uniform was now standing at the end of Freya's row, beckoning furiously at her. The class had dissolved into noise—much of it directed at Freya. The professor seemed to be in a mild form of shock. The porter leaned into the row and called to her. “Miss, could you come with me please?”

“If giants
had
existed,” Freya continued defiantly, “in the way that they are reported to have been, they would have left
exactly
such an imprint on history. There are too many disparate sources, all with the same interior logic.”

“No, it's impossible,” the professor replied, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “There is no archaeological evidence for—”

“That's irrelevant!” Freya shouted. “There's no archaeological evidence for anything until someone finds it! Absence of evidence isn't the same thing as—”

“Miss,” the porter urged. He had now come partway into the row and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I
must
insist that you come with me!”

Freya gathered her bag and rose. “That's no argument at all! If we were having this conversation two hundred years ago, you'd say that Troy didn't exist either, but they found
that
, didn't they? Then they thought twice about the so-called Myths of Troy!”

The professor stood silently and patiently as Freya was led out of the room in the company of the porter, and then she resumed her lecture with the legend of Brut. She had to run very quickly through, rather ironically, textual variants in Monmouth's
Historia Regum Britanniae
, but she came through the ordeal in the end.

Outside, Freya was enduring another stern and predictable talk that referred to the student code of conduct and the privileges and responsibilities of studying at Oxford. Her mind was racing and she was angry, though mostly at herself. Idiots. They didn't understand. Things weren't “true” or “not true” just because they wanted them to be. History didn't follow the rule “the most convenient is true.” But it was impossible to explain to anyone who didn't want to listen. Why did she even try?

That was the real question: why did she even try?

“This is your second warning,” the porter was saying, not unkindly. “The next time I come in to remove you may be the last.

This is the sort of discussion that you should be having with your tutor.”

Freya nodded. That was something else they wouldn't understand. She couldn't talk to her tutor because her tutor wouldn't know what Freya was talking about. She wasn't reading English. She was reading philosophy and theology.

“Okay,” the porter continued. “I can allow you back in if you promise not to talk or make a fuss. Can you do that?”

Freya turned without saying a word and went outside. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she was a good way down High Street before she realised that she'd only gone through the doorway once on her way outside. She stopped immediately, paralysed by a building tidal wave of panic. She braced herself against the wall and watched the people pass her on the pavement and the traffic rattling up and down the street, oblivious of the terrible chaos that engulfed them—that existed in all things.

She needed order; she needed to know that things could make sense, that she could enforce her will upon the storm of existence. She crossed the street twice, and then four more times. This calmed her and she kept crossing the street as she made her way into town.

Why did she do it? What did it matter what people thought and believed, even if it was a lie? What right did she have to burst the fragile bubble of unreality that people surround themselves with? So long as they live happily, what does it matter if they live a lie? Ignorance is a blessing. It was futile to try to wake people up, so
why did she do it?

Freya sighed. She knew exactly why she did it.

She was so wrapped up in these thoughts that she almost walked right into Daniel Tully, the one person in the whole city she was deliberately trying to avoid. She held her breath and saw that he seemed to be so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn't notice her either. She walked closely by him, very nearly brushing his shoulder, and then took an immediate turn down a side street.

She forced herself not to break into an immediate run. If he didn't notice her by now, he didn't have a reason to come after her. Freya's heart felt like breaking, though, seeing him like that, clearly living off the street. She had spotted him yesterday, sitting outside the Sheldonian Theater, begging. She was in a bookshop café across the street and must have stared at him for almost an hour, not sure if she should go to him or leave him alone. If she did, what would she say? What could she say? Did it matter if she said anything, and if it didn't, then why should she put herself or him through the torture of awkwardness. And so she just sat there, oscillating between action and inaction, and doing nothing, on the verge of tears.

“Freya!” came a shout from behind her. It was definitely his voice even though it was deeper—a man's voice now but unmistakably his.

Her heart nearly stopped but she kept walking.

“Freya, come back!”

That was too much for her; she broke into a flat-out run. She made it to the end of the street and did a quick turn left and then right, not stopping until she reached the Bodleian Library, which was students only—they wouldn't allow him in there. She managed to keep herself together until she found an unoccupied study desk, sank into it, head in her arms, and started sobbing silently.

4

Alex Simpson of the Northern Constabulary pulled out of the Muir of Ord police station and started the drive back. He was tired to the bone, but there was an electric ball of energy in his gut that pushed him on. He had changed out of his uniform, naturally, but he had pocketed his notebook. It lay on the passenger's seat next to him almost radiating weight and importance.

He pulled into the small driveway of his small cottage and let himself in, going straight into his back study and sliding the elastic band off the cover of the black notebook. He thumbed to the last page of writing. He studied it for a few moments and then turned to the wall map. It showed all of Scotland, took up most of the wall, and had cost a fair penny. Today it would be working for him.

For the first time in several months he had managed to get some time alone on one of the office computers, where he could access the NC's intranet. Until today, he had been unable to peruse Scotland's crime and misdemeanor reports for anything that looked—well, suspicious. Suspicious to him, that is. And finally he had found something. Missing livestock, even killed and mangled livestock, was no novelty in the highlands, but that, coupled with a 27 percent bump in area crime, and a 300 percent rise in unnatural deaths in the last nine months—that was suspicious and worth sticking on the map.

Running his eyes over the blue pins already spread across the wall, he started to put red pins into the map around the Highlands Council area. Seven sheep reported missing and remains found on the farm of Robert Corbet near Kildonan. With no information on where the animals were found or known to be missing from, he stuck three pins around the farmstead. Two cattle killed and found near the farm of Mactire at Braemore—two pins. Nineteen more reports in the last four months—a couple dozen more red pins.

Next, violent crimes and robberies. A couple hundred of these, in black pins. It took the better part of an hour to mark them all. Next, suicides. Perhaps the most depressing. And again, far more common than one would hope in rural Scotland. In the last six months,
forty
. Fifteen minutes later forty more pins, these ones yellow, stuck in the map.

It was certainly painting a picture. Stepping back, he looked at the nebulous whole of incidents spread pretty much at random— except for a massive cluster of pins to the northeast, in Caithness. It was a sparsely populated area, which made the number of crimes even more remarkable. The haze of red, black, and yellow—at least half of the yellow pins—were clustered there, around a mountain called Morven, which had a bright-blue pin sticking in it. Alarm bells rang in his head.

He phoned his associate and asked him to come over. It was important. His associate was also a member of the Highland Constabulary and the only man in the world besides his father— who was now very old and of diminishing faculties—whom he could speak to about these matters.

He put the kettle on and had just made a pot of tea when his associate knocked on the door and let himself in, walking straight through to the kitchen.

“Ah, tea,” he said. “The drink of the English, of my people— right? What have you got to show me?”

Alex took him through and showed him the map on the wall and briefly explained the pins.

“Then it is clear,” his associate said gravely. “You must go and investigate. Make sure you go fully equipped. It could be anything— remember that cellar full of hobgoblins we found?”

“
I
must go? But you're coming with me?”

“No, I must go south. I may already be too late. But call me if you really need my assistance. I don't think you shall.”

And that settled it. He had four more days until his break, but he might be able to move that up. He would have to call the sergeant tonight.

And he would have to get an early start.

CHAPTER TWO
The Sleeping Knights

1

Eight Years Before . . .

At seven thirty a.m. the clock radio dragged Daniel Tully out of a deep sleep. Just another ordinary day. Ordinary and dreadful.

No, today was different—something happened today. It was his birthday. This woke him up. He turned off the radio alarm and climbed out of bed. Hunting around his room, he searched for the cleanest and least-wrinkled shirt and trousers he could find and put them on. Then he pulled his school jumper over them and went downstairs.

He was the only one awake, as usual, and the kitchen table— where he had once seen presents piled on top of each other several years earlier—was empty. He wandered into the living room and saw nothing on the small dining table either. He went back to the kitchen, kicking his feet.

He put some bread in the toaster and started making coffee.

Wrinkling his nose at the earthy smell as he spooned the raw, dirt-coloured grounds into the percolator, he vowed once more to never drink coffee as long as he lived. He flicked the power button on, wondering if his mum would think about him when she drank it and if she would remember what today was. Maybe he'd get some extra presents out of guilt. It was possible, but unlikely.

He ate his toast and looked out of the kitchen window into the tiny sliver of a garden. It was still quite dark. He didn't like this time of year—he had to go to school in the dark, and also come home in the dark.

It's not fair
, he thought. And then, because he could and he knew it'd make him feel better, he said the words out loud. “It's not fair.”

He wondered what sort of day it was going to be. And then, with a flash of dread, he realised that today was also the field trip. He also realised that he hadn't handed in his permission slip.

He went into the hall and rummaged around on the side table. It must be here—he remembered seeing it. Yes, stuck underneath a strata of bills and junk mail was the blue, wrinkled permission slip with a blank space where his mum's signature should be. He hurried back into the kitchen and looked at the clock on the oven. He had about five minutes. Plucking a pen from the mug on the counter, he rushed back upstairs and stood in front of his mother's door and listened. He could hear faint breathing. He gently knocked on the door, which was open slightly.

“Mum?” he said.

There was no reply.

“Mum?” he said, louder.

There was a very muffled and tired moan. “Whuh 'zit?”

“Mum, I need your signature on something for school. There's a class trip today.”

Silence.

“Mum?”

“L've it d'nstairs. Uh'll sign it when uh get up.”

Daniel stood quietly for a moment. He needed the signature now, not later. He thought about the first of the two options now before him. He really didn't want to go into the bedroom and try to persuade his mother to sign the slip now. He would probably have to actually push the pen into her hand and if he didn't handle it right, there would be a “scene.” Also, he was starting to think that there was someone lying next to her.

No, it was far easier to do the second thing. He hurried back downstairs and put the slip on the kitchen counter, then uncapped the pen he was holding. He looked at the paper for a second and then exhaled. In a quick, confident burst of motion, he wrote his mother's name in a suitably grown-up and illegible manner:
Elaine Tully
. He regarded the slip. Not his best work perhaps, but it would do. The trick was not in trying to make it look exactly like her real signature, but in making it confident.