Shrike (Book 2): Rampant (23 page)

The sky above is a dreary grey, but so far it's not leaking on me. I skirt the perimeter of Granger's hideout, keeping an eye for any indicator of an alarm system. When I see one, I try the first window. It's locked, as are the other three on the north side of the house. I systematically work my way around the house, hoping no neighbours are paying attention. If they ask, I'll say I'm visiting an aunt who lives here and that she accidentally locked me out when I went for a walk.

I don't find any open windows on the ground floor, which doesn't surprise me. Granger's tough and decidedly not stupid.

The loft where she's hiding out only has one window, a dormer that thankfully faces the abandoned lot behind the house. I climb the fence at the back much as I did before, except that instead of wriggling onto the roof, I dangle from the ridgepole with one hand, using the other to try the dormer. It's not much bigger than I am. It swings open. A little wave of triumph almost makes me giddy. I drop to the bottom sill of the window and pull myself up. My jumper snags on the frame, but I fit in, landing a bit ungracefully on my hands and feet.

I shut the window on reflex. If for whatever reason, I miss her approach, I don't want her to see an open window on her way back.

I give myself a moment to look around. 

The place is spartan, much as I'd expect from Rosamund Granger. The loft is unfinished, with exposed beams in the ceiling and exposed bulbs hanging from it to light it. There's a small pallet of blankets with a throw cushion as the only pillow. I recognise the cushion from the sofa downstairs. Whose house is this?

There's not much here. Just the pile of blankets she sleeps on. A small rubbish bin holds some bloodied rags that look like a bed sheet she's cut into strips to bandage her bolt wound. The blood on them is rusty brown, dried and old. Frustrated, I look for anything out of the ordinary. I don't know what I'm expecting to find. Britannia's manifesto, handily signed by all members? A signed headshot of John Abbey wearing a crown of columbines on his head? Neither of those things exist here. 

The obvious choice would be to paw through her blankets, and I allow myself to be tempted for a moment. But she'd notice, just as Magda could tell when someone had gone through her room. Granger would feel my presence in a misplaced sheet corner.

Instead, I lie down on the floor as close to the blankets as I dare. A quick glance at my mobile tells me she's still wandering to the east of here, and though she's turned a bit southward, she hasn't started to veer back toward me. 

The ceiling is rough hewn wood. A few nails stick out here and there. 

Sandwiched between the cracks in two boards is a slip of paper. 

I hop to my feet and tug it out carefully, not wanting to tear it.

It's glossy and smooth to the touch. A folded photograph.

So rare is it to see a physical photograph in the digital age that I unfold it with a certain amount of reverence. And there is Rosamund Granger's face, smiling out at the camera, blue eyes sparkling. She's flanked by two young men. Her sons. My eyes go to Andrew on her left, standing a bit awkwardly, a crooked smile on his own face. I can see his dual-coloured iris in the image, half brown, half blue. His brother Edmund doesn't have it. His eyes shine out as blue as his mother's. His smile is as wide as hers, straight white teeth gleaming as he beams at the camera.

Anyone stumbling on this photo would just see a happy family, a warm trio of loved ones rejoicing in one another's presence.

But one is dead with his brains blown out, another is a hostage with possibly the same fate in store, and the third is a mass murderer with only one thing left to lose.

I refold the photograph and replace it as I found it. 

I search the ceiling and floorboards as thoroughly as I can until the white dot that is Rosamund Granger turns back to the west and toward her hideout.Then I slither back through the window and drop to the ground, wondering why I came. Whatever I hoped to find doesn't exist.

twenty-three

I return to my flat to find Magda pouring boiling water from the kettle into a mug, Taog sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands.

Alarmed, I hurry toward him. "All right, Taog?"

He looks up, and I can see that another blood vessel in his eye has burst. He shakes his head, and the movement suggests his head feels like a balloon on a string.

"You seemed so much better," I say, bewildered. He only left the house a couple hours ago. 

Magda hands him the mug of tea, her arm brushing mine. I see her worried frown, and she pulls up a chair from the dining table.

Suddenly Taog pitches forward, coughing. The mug of hot tea goes flying, and I catch it out of reflex, setting it down on the coffee table. My hand takes the full brunt of the scalding liquid, but I don't care. I'm at his side, kneeling in a puddle of tea in front of the sofa in the time it takes Magda to jump from surprise. I can see an arc of tea spots across her chest. 

"Taog," I say. "Can you breathe?"

His chest heaves, and he nods before another spasm of coughing takes over. He holds his hand over his mouth, hacking. Once I had whooping cough as a child, and his coughs sound like that. Deep and resonant, they seem to be sounding a distress call from somewhere buried within him.

He pulls his hand away from his mouth, and I see spots of red on his palm. 

Magda sees it too. 

"Call Shannon," I say, hoping to everything that she's not at work right now.

Magda jumps up from the chair and hurries to find her mobile. 

I put one hand on Taog's back. He sucks in a breath, looking dizzy. 

"When did this start?" I ask him quietly.

He points at the 2 on his watch. An hour ago. My hand drifts around from his back to his shoulder, and he reaches up to clasp it. He's unaware of the blood that dots his skin, and I see the smear of red across the back of my hand when his shifts.

"Shannon's coming," Magda says. "She says to keep him calm and prop him up on the sofa until she gets here."

"I can hear you," Taog says. His voice is hoarse, but I love him a little bit more for the touch of self-deprecating humour when he's coughing up blood.

"Hush," I tell him. I push cushions into the corner of the sofa and help him lie back, pressing my hands against his chest. When I try to move them away, he reaches up to stop me.

"Please," he says. "Keep them there."

I kneel next to him, feeling a bit silly with my palms at the centre of his chest. I can feel his heart, fluttery and anxious beneath his breastbone. I can hear it, too, along with the rattle in his lungs. I try to keep my alarm from showing on my face, but he closes his eyes after a moment, and I shoot Magda a panicked look.

She comes back to sit in the chair, reaching out one hand to my back. 

It feels strange and terrifying to sit here with Magda comforting me as I comfort Taog. I don't know what to do. My own heart beats a pitter-pat in my chest, fear drying my mouth. This isn't just a cold or a bout of the flu. Pneumonia, maybe. I've heard it's easier to catch pneumonia when you're worn out. But coughing up blood — you don't have to be a doctor to know that's very, very bad.

We sit there in relative silence, with me the only person who can hear the rumbling rattle in Taog's lungs. It sounds to me as if something has broken off and is bouncing about. I wish I could say something to Magda, but I don't want to alarm Taog. His chest feels hot beneath my hands, and a thin veneer of perspiration shows on his forehead. It seems to take an hour for Shannon to arrive, even though by the clocks, it's less than fifteen minutes.

She bustles past Magda and moves my hands to the side.

"Oi, Taog. What've you done to yourself now?" Her red hair is pulled back from her face in a neat plait, and she's in normal clothes instead of scrubs. For some reason the sight of her in green corduroys and a floral-printed top reassures me.

"Dunno, Shannon." 

I hate how weak his voice sounds, and I hate that he gives me a smile as if to say he's fine. He's not fine, and we all know it.

"If you wanted to see me, you could have just rang me or popped by the hospital. No need to go collapsing on people."

"Aye, well," he begins, and a bout of coughing starts again. 

Shannon quickly dons a stethoscope and presses it to his chest. I see the flicker of worry cross her face. She helps Taog sit up, and I watch as the muscles in his stomach clench with each hack. When his coughing subsides, she listens to him breathe, takes his blood pressure and his temperature, swabs his throat, and finally pulls out a syringe.

"I'm going to take a wee sample of your blood," she says. "Doctor Morrison will take a look at your results at the hospital."

He nods, and Shannon's deft fingers find the vein at the crook of his arm and quickly fill a vial with blood. She tucks it into a case with the throat swab and motions to me to follow her toward the foyer. 

Before she leaves Taog's side, she pats him on the shoulder. "You. Stay here, drink some water or broth, and don't budge unless you're about to piss yourself."

He laughs at her coarse language, and it makes him cough again.

"Och, sorry," she says. I follow her to the foyer, and her face drops its nurse mask. "Gwen," she says, "Keep a close eye on him. Magda said he coughed up some blood? Just spots?"

"Aye, just a wee bit."

She nods. "That can be any number of things, from bronchitis to tuberculosis, but I want you to watch him. If he worsens, or if more blood comes up, take him directly to Accident and Emergency. It looks like a bad flu, but he might need a chest x-ray."

"I could hear something in his lungs," I say.

"Aye, so could I. I'd rather not move him too much just now, at least until we get the tests back."

"When will you know?"

"Within a couple hours. I'll take these right to the lab and consult Doctor Morrison."

I remember Dr Morrison. He's the man who told me I'd never have children. "Thank you for coming, Shannon."

"It's not a problem. He'll be okay, Gwen. He's probably just very overtired and it weakened his immune system."

It's the same thing I've been thinking. In the comic books, none of the characters end up with pneumonia or strep because of exhaustion. But my life is not a comic book.

I watch Shannon leave, setting a mental timer for two hours.

I need to do something. Anything. I ask Magda to sit with Taog, and she agrees immediately, rustling around in the cupboard for some bouillon to make him a cup of broth to sip. When I leave, she's mopping up the spilt tea from before.

I head straight for the Gu Bràth office. I've never been there. The closest I've been is a wee close just to the southwest of the office where Taog got jumped by Britannia thugs. I wonder now who they were. Actual Britannia members? Considering how tightly they keep membership, I think it's more likely that they were hopefuls, like the group that attempted to steal the Stone of Scone and made a cock up out of it. 

The door is unlocked when I arrive. When he said office, I thought it would be like my office. All cubicles and computer workstations. Maybe a few tasteful plants. But the Gu Bràth headquarters lies through an azure-painted door, and inside it's a homey nest of colour. A wee nook sits off to one side with sofas and lamps and a bookcase I can see from here holds everything from Shakespeare to Irvine Welsh. There's a water cooler against the far wall, with a table next to it full of tea, two kettles, and a single serve coffee maker. A rack of mugs on hooks contains many blue "Yes Scotland" mugs scattered in with others that look like they were found at a car boot sale. 

"Can I help you?" A woman's voice breaks through the silence, and she emerges from a corridor behind the water cooler. She has warm brown skin and dark eyes, and she dabs at her nose with a tissue.

"Aye, hiya," I say. "I'm Gwen Maule, one of Taog's friends."

"Och, is he all right? He left rather suddenly and was coughing quite a lot."

"He's ill, which is why I'm here. I know Tasha is ill as well, and it appears you are too?" I motion at the tissue. 

"Yeah, it's going around," she says. "We've all got it. I blame Zachary. He came in sneezing like a mad thing last week, and it's all been bollocks ever since."

"Does everyone have the same symptoms?"

She nods. "Just about, aye." 

I ponder that for a moment. 

"I forgot to introduce myself properly," she says suddenly. "Bronwyn Sultani."

I shake her hand, feeling disoriented. She's another name on Gina Galbraith's list.

"You say all the illness started last week?"

"Aye. Zachary insisted it was just his allergies acting up because his mum made him help tidy up their loft, but everyone started falling ill right after he came in, and we haven't seen him since."

"Did anyone ring him to check up?"

"Yeah, we did do. His mum said he went to Mull on a mini break."