The Ghost Roads (Ring of Five) (19 page)

They’d made it as far as the entrance hall when they heard running feet.

“Quick,” Les said. They ducked behind a statue of a man hiding his face with a cloak. Smyck, Exspectre and others ran into the hallway. Once they had all passed, Les, Vandra, Dixie and Toxique ran out behind them. Exspectre looked around, surprised.

“Don’t look at me, dozy,” Les said. “We were behind you all the way from the Roosts!”

“Yeah, eyes front!” Dixie said. “Could be twenty Cherbs waiting around the corner.”

“Armed to the teeth!” Vandra grinned. Smyck and Exspectre slowed down considerably at the prospect of running into a band of Cherbs. When they got to the Gallery of Whispers, Brunholm was already there.

“Vandalism!” Brunholm cried. “One of the most precious rooms in the entire Lower World, destroyed by wanton violence.”

“It’s only a broken window, sir,” Les said.

“Silence, boy. I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand … the perfection, the integrity …”

They were joined by Duddy and Spitfire, who stared at the destruction, aghast.

“The vandals seemed to move accompanied by a black mist,” Brunholm said. “The cameras were shielded in order, thus permitting them to move unobserved.” The cadets exchanged glances.

“If he looks at the cameras outside the Roosts, he’ll see a white mist,” Les whispered.

“This doesn’t look as if it was vandalism,” Spitfire said thoughtfully. “Look at the cracks in the wall—you’d think there was some kind of vibration.”

“Yes, dear,” Duddy said, “but vibration from what?”

“If the voices were somehow blocked,” Spitfire went on thoughtfully, “it might set up a resonance in the stone.…”

Brunholm exploded. “Stuff and nonsense! We’ll have none of that fanciful rubbish here. Spread out! The enemy is about somewhere!”

As Brunholm organized squads to search the grounds, Les, Toxique, Vandra and Dixie slipped back to the Roosts. The cameras outside were still obscured, and most of the cadets were up and engaged in the search, so they were able to have a quick cup of hot chocolate in front of the stove in the girls’ Roost. After a quick check for listening devices they talked about the night’s events.

“Spitfire had a point,” Dixie said. “It felt like the Gallery of Whispers had been blocked somehow.”

“Which makes the Lost Boys important, doesn’t it?” Vandra said. “I mean that if somebody goes to all the trouble of blocking the gallery—I don’t know how you would do it—they have to be important, don’t they?”

“Funny,” Les said. “All they did was draw attention to themselves.”

“Not funny at all,” Vandra objected. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to cover a possibility that might never happen. I mean, what were the chances of anyone
asking the gallery about the Lost Boys, particularly when we’ve only just heard of them? Somebody is playing a high-stakes game here.”

Yawning, the boys went back to their Roost. They were ready for bed, but there was one last surprise waiting for them: Les’s bed had been attacked. The pillows had been slashed and the blankets shredded.

“Bleeding Smyck,” Les said crossly. But Toxique examined the blankets.

“Smyck doesn’t own a blade as sharp as this one,” he said.

“Hello,” Les said, “looks like someone got themselves an unexpected surprise.”

“What?”

“They opened the box with the slug in it and got themselves bit in the process.”

It was true. The box that had held the Slug of Somnolence lay empty on the floor, and there was a pool of blood beside it.

“We’ll see tomorrow who’s got a chunk out of them,” Les said, lying down and trying to pull the ragged pieces of the blankets around him.

“I wonder,” Toxique said, “I really wonder.”

The next day they scrutinized everyone for teeth marks, but no one showed any sign of the painful bite. It was another mystery in a night and day of mysteries.

THE PHONEMAKER

I
t was done under cover of night, as such things are best done. The gypsy Sye emerged from the shadowy canal bank and was almost on the sentry before the man saw him. The sentry’s rifle came up instantly.

“Halt, or I’ll fire!”

Sye stopped dead, an odd wheedling expression on his face.

“Sure don’t be shooting at me, and me only here to give you a bit of information. Do my bit for the public, like.”

“What information?” the guard asked suspiciously.

“Ah, it would be better for the two of us if I didn’t give it to you, sure the head might crack on you with the importance of it. I’ll be talking to the boss man, if you don’t mind.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll crack your skull with this here rifle if you don’t stop prattling.”

“I know where he went,” Sye said, the wheedling mannerisms suddenly gone. “The creature who blew up the base. I’ll give him to you and you can do what you will.”

The sentry eyed Sye. The boss was never happy to be disturbed for nothing. On the other hand, if this raggedy man was genuine and the information didn’t get through …

“All right,” he said, “come this way.”

Sye followed the sentry. It wasn’t the first time he had sold information, but he had a feeling that the payout tonight would be the biggest yet. He had seen the size of the manhunt that had been organized to find Danny.

But the night didn’t go as he had expected. He was brought to a dark building in the far corner of a disused airfield. The sentry’s boss—an officer, by appearance, but he wore a uniform with no insignia—had walked into the room, glanced at Sye and then walked out again without comment. Since then Sye had been sitting there on his own, awaiting he knew not what.

After he had been there for two or more hours he heard a scratching sound on the roof, followed by heavy bumps. He shifted nervously in his seat. It sounded like a bird landing on the roof of his caravan, except louder, much louder. The bumps were followed by a noise like something heavy being dragged over the roof. The palms of his hands were damp. He was starting to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all. Then there was the smell. A subtle odor of decay permeated the building.

Sye got to his feet. He could tell them he was mistaken, that he wanted to go back to the camp and get more information, that he would come back in the morning. No harm done. He turned toward the door. He froze. He hadn’t heard the door open. For a moment he thought a piece of the night had become detached and filled the doorway. The odor was stronger now. The shape in the doorway was a man—no, not a man; it was too tall, and those things on its back … were they wings? They couldn’t be.…

The figure moved farther into the room. Sye backed away, blinking, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. Old tales told around campfires when he was a child raced through his mind, stories about the creatures of the night that lurked in the darkness outside the firelight. A gaunt, evil face and burning eyes, a tall man, stooped and bony. And wings. Real feathered wings. Sye felt his insides turn to water. His legs gave way under him and he collapsed back onto a chair.

“The boy,” the creature said. His voice sounded like he looked: ancient, without mercy. “Tell me where the boy is.”

Sye tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. The creature loomed over him. Sye whimpered.

D
anny had started to sleep during the day and go out at night. People didn’t notice his eyes at night. He quickly learned where the police set up their identification checks in the neighborhood. In fact, he learned a valuable lesson
from watching them through the back window of his van. Like all organizations, they had their routine. Attempts were made to vary it, but the whole thing still revolved around meals and shift changes. If he wanted to move, the best time to do it was during one of these openings. The police clocking off were tired, and the ones coming on weren’t up to speed.

He bought a television and a DVD player. He recorded many different camera shots of the prime minister and his bigwig friends arriving at the official residence, noting who was on security at the time. He bought a gray suit and had his hair cut short.

His height was a problem, although he had grown quite a bit in the previous year. He bought shoe inserts to make himself look taller. By the time he was finished he looked the part of a secret service agent. It was time to try the whole thing out.

He waited until the mayor was visiting a local flower show. There was no security, only a few policemen. Danny mingled with the crowd, then put on his dark glasses and started talking into an imaginary microphone in his lapel. People started moving respectfully out of his way. A policeman came up to him after twenty minutes and asked him if he had “seen the suspicious-looking character manning the cake stall.” Danny assured him that the man had been vetted already.

It was childishly simple, though Danny knew that it wouldn’t be as easy to infiltrate the prime minister’s entourage. Apart from anything else, it was getting harder to move anywhere without being stopped by the police.
He needed some form of identification. He remembered Brunholm’s voice.

“The law of supply and demand,”
Brunholm had said,
“always applies. If the Ring needs slaves, there will always be someone to sell them. If you need something when you’re on the run, there will be a supplier—of guns, knives, passports, whatever you want, as long as you’ve got the money.”

So Danny went into the city at night. He sought out the poorer areas, where the shops stayed open long after midnight and men hissed at you from alleyways, trying to sell things that were stolen or illegal, or simply in an attempt to lure a passerby in and rob them. There were checkpoints on these streets as well, but the people were good at avoiding them. Danny got to know a few of the street sellers, working his way into their confidence by buying stolen car stereos from them or tipping them off when the police were coming.

In truth, Danny didn’t have to do much to convince them that he wasn’t an undercover policeman or any kind of threat. They had an instinct for their own kind. Everyone in these streets was on the run or hiding out in some shape or form, and no one asked any questions. If Danny wanted to wear sunglasses when it was already dark or keep the bill of his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, then it was none of their business.

Duddy had once said that you could be taught a lot of things in the classroom, but it was no substitute for being out there, pursuit on your tail. Danny honed his spy instincts in these nights, learning from those around
him, the pickpockets and fences and street people. If you didn’t want to give your name, then nobody asked. If you wanted an alibi, or something that had fallen off a truck, or a gun, you got it with no questions. Danny learned that it was easy to get a fake college ID or a driver’s license, but he looked too young for either. He needed a passport, and that was more difficult and more expensive.

After a week a young street seller, Pad Burden, sidled up to him.

“Got a smoke?” Danny shook his head. Pad moved closer and spoke rapidly.

“There’s a man in a cellar on Elm Street. The sign outside says
Mobile Phones, Sales and Repair
. Go to the back of the shop.”

Danny nodded thanks and slipped Pad a ten-pound note, knowing it would buy his food for the week. Pad slipped the note into his pocket, then spoke again. “Be careful. There’s a lot of people looking for a kid about your age, your height.”

“There’s plenty of kids my age around here.”

“There’s not many looking for a fake passport, mate.”

A
mbrose Longford considered the information that Conal had extracted from the gypsy. Danny had embarked on the ghost roads. Which meant that he was now in the city. He had been accompanied by some foul old gypsy woman and her granddaughter.

“Do you want them?” Conal asked.

“What would I do with some raggedy old dear and
her snot-nosed granddaughter? They’re only a distraction,” Longford said.

“Perhaps we could use them as bait.”

“No. The only leverage we have is on her sickbed in Wilsons. I want our efforts redoubled in that direction.”

“And the Cherb boy?”

“Keep him where he is. He may come in useful sometime.”

“The jailers are reporting some difficulties with Nurse Flanagan. She’s making unreasonable requests for cosmetics and things like that.”

“Let her have them,” Longford chuckled, “I’m feeling generous today.”

“If you insist,” Conal said stiffly.

“What about our gypsy friend?”

“He did not survive the interrogation, unfortunately.”

“Did not survive it, or did you finish him off when you had wrung all the information you could get out of him? Honestly, Conal, I do wonder what happens to all those people who die by accident in your custody. There never does seem to be a body to bury.”

Conal’s eyes glinted but he said nothing.

“Go now,” Longford said, gesturing toward the open window. Conal took two steps, then hopped up onto the windowsill. He spread his wings and was gone, leaving behind a smell of rotting flesh.

Longford picked up the phone and dialed the number of air force headquarters, but he hung up before anyone answered. Conal was still of use. Then he called the chief of the metropolitan police.