The Eighth Court (14 page)

Unless that was its purpose. A note left that only the person it was intended for would find or be able to make anything of. Everyone else would walk past it, but the person whose name was on it would look twice. Was it meant for me? If that was the case then it must have been left by someone who knew there was a connection between us. Still, there was no point in leaving a note for me that was months out of date.

So if 19/10 wasn’t a date, what was it? A meeting needed a date, a time and a place. It had a place, and it had a date, but no time. What if 19/10 wasn’t a date, but a time? What if it was 19:10? If that was true then we had a time but no date. What kind of meeting didn’t need a date? Only a meeting that was today. Taking the note carefully from under the magnet, I pocketed it.

I would get Big Dave to drop me at Paddington Green, and this time I would be taking my sword.

As soon as the hand released her, Alex drew a breath to yell for help. The hand clamped back over her mouth. “Mmmmmmm!” she squealed through the hand.

She was running out of oxygen. Spots were beginning to appear before her eyes. She struggled to get an arm free, anything to make release the hand clamped over her mouth and nose. Suddenly it released and air rushed out of her. She took another huge breath and the hand clamped back over her mouth and nose.

“We can carry on like this or you can be quiet,” whispered the voice. Alex made some small, whimpering noises. “Can I trust you not to scream?” She nodded again. The hand was gradually removed and she spent a moment just breathing, drawing big gulps of air into her as the luminous dots floating in front of her vision receded.

In the darkness, she gradually became aware of the person still holding her. The size of the hand held ready to silence her was clue enough. “Tate?” she said.

“Shhhh,” he warned. “Just breathe.”

She gradually caught her breath and relaxed against him. In a strange way it was comforting to be held like that. As she relaxed he eased his grasp until she simply leaned against him, encircled within his arms. “What are you doing here?” His question was whispered close to her ear.

“I saw you sneaking out and I followed you,” she admitted.

“Why?” he asked her.

“Why not?” she asked. “I thought you were up to something.”

“I’m on Warder business,” he said. “You could have got yourself killed.”

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself,” she said, the lie in that obvious to both of them.

“You can’t stay here,” he said. “Go back to the courts. Wait for me there.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I’m lost. I’ve been trying to find my way back for the last hour.” Tate made a noise like a distant steam train. “It’s not funny!” she whispered harshly.

“No, unfortunately it’s not.” They stayed there in the dark. She found herself warming slowly, and he showed no inclination to release her.

“You’ll have to guide me back,” she said, eventually.

“Shhh,” he whispered softly.

“I mean it, people will begin to wonder where I’ve gone.”

“Listen,” he whispered.

She listened then, and caught voices carried on the breeze. Someone – no, more than one person, were moving through the wood.

“Who is it?” she whispered softly.

“You don’t want to know,” he breathed close to her ear.

She pressed herself back in against him, and in response he curled his arms around her tighter. The voices were low and she couldn’t make out the words. They passed a little distance away. Gradually the sound receded and they were left alone in the shadow of the tree-trunk again.

“Stay here,” whispered Tate, releasing her. “I’ll come back for you.”

“No!” said Alex.

“I mean it, Alex. We’re not playing games.” There was urgency in his tone.

She looked up at him in the dark. “What if you don’t come back?” Alex tried not to think about the long hours in the dark, but the thought of being left here alone again made her eyes well up.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” he said. “Look, it’s dangerous. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

“An hour! I’ll freeze to death in an hour!”

He hushed her again.

“I’ll come with you,” she volunteered. “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

She felt his eyes on her in the dark, and had the sudden impression that he could see her much better than she could see him.

“I’m going to regret this,” he said. “I just know.”

He beckoned her to follow and mounted the small bank he had dragged her down, offering her a hand when she struggled to climb even that small incline. He moved quickly and silently through the woods, and she followed after, snapping twigs and occasionally exclaiming when a wet branch hit her in the face or bramble caught her hands.

He stopped. “This isn’t working,” he whispered.

“I’m not hanging round in the dark waiting,” she said, determined not to be consigned to the hollow beneath the trunk in the dark for an hour. “I’ll make my own way back.”

This was clearly so preposterous that it made him smile. She found herself grinning back in the dark. “What?” she said.

“You are your father’s daughter,” he said.

“What does that mean,” she asked, offended.

“Never mind. Climb onto my back,” he said. “Like a piggy-back.”

“I’m too old for piggy-backs,” she said, looking at him sceptically.

“It’s either that, or I tie you to a tree and gag you,” he said.

“You wouldn’t dare!” she said, but something in his stance said that he would dare, if that was the only way. “I’m not liking this,” she said.

He knelt down, and she climbed on his back the way she used to climb on her Dad’s when she was little. Somehow the sheer size of him made her feel small again, as she wrapped her arms round his neck and he gathered her legs under his arms. He rose up, and she clung on tight, wary of being dropped backwards.

“Hold on tight,” he said. Instead of the walking pace he’d set before, he immediately broke into a long-legged trot, swerving round bushes and ducking under branches so that her hair brushed through them as they passed. They made surprisingly little noise. There was the rush of the breeze and the whisper of branches as they passed and she found herself on a wild silent ride through the dark, which left her breathless.

They slowed and halted on one side of a high bank, crested with young trees. Tate let her down and she rubbed her legs where he had held her. She was sure she would have bruises tomorrow.

He held his finger to his lips and then slowly and carefully climbed the bank. She found her way up slowly behind him until she reached the crest, where she joined him lying on the damp earth.

Beyond the rise was a clearing, sheltered within an arc of trees that formed a natural barrier. In the clearing was a camp. Now that she could see it, she recognised the scent of wood smoke as it drifted like the thread of a ghost on the breeze. A fire glowed low, without much flame or smoke, inside a ring of stones in the centre of the clearing. Nearby, something between a tent and a shelter was erected around an arch of bendy sticks and covered with a heavy tarpaulin that concealed everything within. They watched in silence for some while, until Alex whispered to Tate. “What are we looking for?”

In answer, Tate hushed her and pointed towards the edge of the clearing. After a while there was the sound of an approach, and four people walked out of the trees. They moved quietly but without stealth. Alex immediately recognised two of them as Lord Krane and Lord Teoth, but the other two were unknown to her. Each appeared to be associated with one of the Feyre Lords – an escort, perhaps. They entered the clearing and a stubby little man emerged from the shelter. He had the look of Teoth’s court about him in the same way as Fellstamp did, but he didn’t especially acknowledge the Nixine Lord any more than he did Lord Krane. He reminded Alex of an undertaker, and he appeared to be treating the two Lords more like equals, although he greeted both of them courteously, nodded to the escorts, and then returned to the fire to warm his hands. Lord Krane approached the fire, and an animated discussion began.

Though they were too far away to hear what was going on, it appeared to be some sort of exchange – the man appeared to be haggling with Krane over something. Offer and counter-offer was refused until Lord Teoth showed his impatience and demanded whatever it was they were arguing about to be handed over. The man demurred, but then produced a small white cloth, which was stained with something brown. It was passed between Krane and Teoth, and the man questioned about it.

There was a silent exchange between the two Lords and they withdrew a short distance to confer. The discussion then was no less animated, but they kept their voices low. The man at the fire was clearly trying to overhear, but the two escorts placed them selves between him and their discussion, ensuring a certain amount of privacy. After a while the argument subsided and they returned to the fire. Lord Krane spoke to the undertaker who offered his hand as if to shake on the deal. After a moment, Lord Krane held out the white cloth and dropped it into the fire. The man shouted at this and attempted to grab the cloth from the fire. Meanwhile Lord Teoth pointed to the man, the shelter and the fire, and then walked away with Lord Krane.

Without warning, the two escorts drew weapons and attacked the little man. He wasn’t armed, while one of the escorts had an axe, and the other a sword. Alex couldn’t bear it. She looked away and covered her ears at the terrible cries from the man as he was brutally cut down. When she looked back, the escorts were taking the shelter apart and tossing it onto the fire piece by piece. The little man’s body had been thrown on the fire with everything else. The fire produced thick grey smoke, and for a moment Alex caught the smell of it and nearly threw up. Tate glared at her, and she slid back down the bank away from the sight. She could no longer watch.

She remained at the foot of the bank until Tate joined her. When Alex made to speak, he hushed her, but knelt and let her climb aboard his back. Without a word he set off back through the woods, leaving Alex shocked and confused at what she’d seen. The wild ride through the trees was repeated, but her mind kept returning to the events in the clearing, what she’d witnessed, and why Tate had gone to some trouble to observe the two Feyre Lords unnoticed. By the time they reached the Way-node, she was exhausted, both mentally and physically.

Tate knelt to let her slide from his back. “Can you find your way back?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I guess so.”

“Then perhaps I’ll speak with you tomorrow,” he said. “In the meantime, do not discuss what you saw with anyone.”

“Not even Dad?” she said.

“Especially your Dad,” he said. “If I’d known what was going to happen…”

“Oh shit!” said Alex. “I was supposed to look after the baby. Lesley’s been left with him all evening.”

“Then you’d better come up with a good excuse,” said Tate. “One that doesn’t include what you saw.”

“What did I see?” asked Alex.

Tate looked at her long and hard. “You don’t need to know,” he said. “That sort of information can get you killed.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll only guess,” she pointed out. “Why would they argue about a stained bit of white cloth?”

Tate sighed. “That’s the wrong question,” he said.

“OK then, what’s the right question?” she asked.

“What was on the cloth that they would kill to get rid of it?” said Tate.

“And?” asked Alex.

“If you hadn’t been with me,” said Tate, “I might have been tempted to go and find out.”

I was beginning to wonder whether asking Dave to take me to Paddington was a good idea. We had done well initially, but then the traffic had snarled up and we’d moved forward twenty yards in as many minutes.

“How far is it?” I asked Dave.

“If we can get through Sussex Square we’ll probably be OK,” he said, “Paddington’s about half a mile that way, but a lot of this is the queue to get onto the Westway and out of London. At this time of day we could be a while.”

“OK, you head back. I’ll find my own way back when I’ve done what I need to do. I can walk from here.”

“It’ll probably be quicker,” he agreed.

Exiting the car, I joined the commuters heading through the winter streets towards Paddington. It was already dusk and I hurried through streets flanked with railway hotels and town houses converted into flats. As I neared the station I walked alongside commuters heading for their evening trains and reflected briefly that they used to be me, or more properly I used to be them. They walked through the streets, talking on mobile phones, listening to MP3 players, carrying newspapers for the homeward journey. They didn’t acknowledge me, each other, or their surroundings. The poet John Donne once wrote that no man is an island, but these men and women were doing a good impression of being cut off at high tide.

As I neared the station entrance the neighbourhood took a turn for the worse and I used my glamour to avoid attention. There’s something about railway stations that attracts people who ought to be somewhere else. They get trapped in the ebb and flow and remain in its backwaters, floating around the edges and hoping for… what? Perhaps because such places change constantly they feel that they too could change, or perhaps it’s just so noisy and distracting that they never have to hear themselves think.

Behind Paddington Station is an old canal basin. I followed the walkway to a bridge to find that since my last visit it had been redeveloped and was now flanked by glass-fronted office buildings and spanned by steel and cable suspension bridges. Narrow boats and barges were docked in the basin, but these were brightly painted, shiny examples compared to the rusting hulks I remembered.

I crossed the murky water and slipped between the coffee shops and office blocks and headed through the back streets and under the Westway. While couriers on motorbikes weaved through the nose-to-tail traffic above me, I slipped underneath and followed the side roads through to Paddington Green. Where the public side of Paddington Station had been converted houses and seedy hotels, this was rows of flats, one after another. The smell of boiled vegetables overlaid with curry aromas drifted down the side roads, accompanied by a soundtrack of screaming children, teatime TV and distant sirens.

The small park was an island of green in the urban landscape, with the church and its graveyard beside it, the sombre, mossy tombs standing like witnesses to the gradual encroachment of tarmac and concrete. The last light had long faded from the sky to be replaced by the city glow reflected from the underside of the scudding clouds. A group of black youths made their way from Westminster College across the way, huddled against the cold, their heavy bags slung across their chests, heads together in conversation. Like everyone else, they ignored me.

I wandered slowly around the park. A lone figure was sitting on the end of one of the benches, his coat wrapped close. I took my time, looking for watchers, wary of traps.

Having satisfied myself that we were not being observed, I took the path through the park. As I approached, I let the glamour fall away so that the person on the bench would notice me. He sat up straighter as I approached.

As I neared the bench, I realised who had left the note. The sandy hair gave it away, though Sam Veldon could easily have been mistaken for a tramp, sat on the bench, wrapped in his overcoat.

Sam worked for one of the Home Office agencies – anti-terror or against organised crime – Claire had said it was something like that. He and Claire had once been an item, but the relationship had foundered on the secrets between them. Sam had been unable to share his work and unwilling to accept that Claire had her own secrets. Now Claire was dead.

I stopped a few yards away. “Sam? It was you who left the note?”

“We’re not on first name terms,” he said. “You’re not my friend.” He steadfastly looked ahead, refusing to acknowledge my presence.

“I’m not your enemy either.”

“Sit down,” he said. “You draw too much attention.”

I looked around the darkened park. “This was your choice, Sam. There are warmer, more private and more welcoming places we could talk.”

He took out a stainless steel flask from his jacket and flicked off the top, lifting it to his lips, he took a long swig. I could smell the whisky from where I stood, and it wasn’t the first swig he’d taken. I moved forward and sat on the other end of the bench, leaving enough between for someone else to sit – as if there were a presence between us. “I’m told you have something for me.” I reminded him.

“That I do,” he said. He tucked the flask back into his coat, struggling for a moment to replace it. There was a sound, like a muted pop, through the fabric of his coat. Something hit me, like punch in the side. It came again. I put my hand down and it came away red. “You bastard.” My head was swimming as the shock hit me. He’d shot me.

Sam stood up. “The first one’s for Claire,” he said, “and the second is for me. You’re a hazard, Petersen. Like a mad dog, you have to be put down. They said it would make it slow and painful – and I don’t want you to die quickly. I want it slow, so you’d get time to think about what you’ve done. One in the heart and one in the head may be the professional way, but two in the gut is more satisfying for someone who cuts a defenceless woman’s throat and leaves her to bleed.”

I was clutching my side where the blood oozed between my fingers. What had started like a kick in the side was twisting in my guts like a serrated knife. “I didn’t kill her, Sam. I was trying to save her,” I coughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s funny how people you try to help keep dying. Enjoy the rest of your life, Petersen, for the short time you have left.” He turned and walked away towards Edgware Road.

“Sam,” I called after him weakly. “You’ve got to help me.” I don’t know whether he didn’t hear me, or whether he didn’t care. Either way he just kept walking.

I tried to stand, but the pain in my guts was excruciating. Sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes. My lips tasted of salt. My head felt light and I swallowed rising bile. I was losing a lot of blood. If I didn’t get help soon, I was going to pass out, and the chances of ever come round were slim. I tried to think what the treatment for gunshot wounds was, but the only thing I could remember were movies where everyone died a quick and clean death. I lifted my hands and they were slick with my own blood. Pressing my jacket to the wounds in my side, I tried to stem the flow of blood, but I had no strength and it hurt like hell. My arms were failing me. I was starting to slump – I simply couldn’t hold myself up. My chest was heaving as I tried to get more air. I thought fey were supposed to be hard to kill, but when it came to it, dying didn’t seem to be that difficult.

The roughness of the bench rested against my cheek. I was lying there with no idea how I’d got there. I must have passed out. The pain was less acute, but it was spreading through my body until the whole of me ached. My eyelids felt heavy. I had to rest, gather my strength, if only for a moment…