The World House (26 page)

  "Is it in the water?" Elise asked. "Sounds like it's moving across the brick rather than swimming."

  "Who knows?" Tom replied. "Let's get out of here before we have to find out!"

  To their right the mouth of the tunnel became clear, the flickering of torchlight showing they were only a few metres away. Performing a weird, crablike dance, they thrashed faster and faster. Pablo, still in the lead, pulled himself clear of the tunnel, turning around to help Tom then Elise.

  "It's right on top of me!" Chester was shouting as both Tom and Pablo grabbed hold of him and yanked him out. He wasn't wrong: the creature that had pursued them had hold of Chester's other arm, and was emerging into the light. Its wide gelatinous face was pulled back on either side by the bricks, like a plastic surgeon's hands eager to cinch the deal. There was something of both amphibian and human ancestry to it. Its skin was off-white, like a glass of milk on sixty cigarettes a day. The eyes were much bigger than any eyes have a right to be, rolling around in sockets that held them as fast as holes in mud grip a stray foot. The mouth wasn't smiling, however unnaturally wide it stretched, and the teeth looked no more solid than gristle or single grains from a sieved rice pudding. Apart from these characteristics the rest of the physiognomy was recognisably human: a man that had been left in the water too long, perhaps, wrinkled and bloated all at the same time. Tom put it best when he said, "What the fuck is that!"

  "I can tell you what it isn't," said Elise from behind him. "Lonely."

  They turned around. The creatures were everywhere, climbing, swimming, running… all heading towards them.

 
 
 

"Well, I can't see that Scotland's worth the fuss, if I'm honest," says the renegade, washing the words down with some particularly foul wine. He holds the liquid in his mouth for a moment, analysing its composition and seeing what could be done to improve it. Deciding that there are limits to even his abilities he swallows the drink and vows to avoid it in future. "It's cold and filled with men that shriek as much as their women. Unless you think it possible to cut the damn thing off and push it out into the ocean I would suggest your attention is better spent elsewhere."

  "If only that were possible, my friend," the young Edward replies, scratching at the thin beard he wears to add authority to a youthful face, "but a King needs to remind people of his strength. Wars are fought on principle as much as for acquisition."

  "My liege!" A messenger runs into the hall, remembering to bow deeply before delivering his news. "We have reports of French ships off the south coast."

Edward sighs. "Not the French again…"

  "Need I remind you of Philip's statement when he reclaimed Aquitaine, your majesty?" asks the renegade with a smile. "I think it's time you reminded the phlegmy bastards who their sovereign is."

  "I suppose there's nothing like a good war to keep the spirits high," admits Edward.

  "Indeed," replies the renegade, "and something tells me this one could run and run…"

 
 
 

It grew colder the further they walked, the untrodden snow punctuated by misplaced household furniture. An easy chair sagged under an extra cushion, an icy antimacassar glittering on its back. A standard lamp offered a pool of light within which fauns might loiter. A dessert trolley rested – rather disconcertingly – in the centre of a swirl of concentric circles that its coasters had made in the snow. There were no footsteps to be seen so one could only assume it had danced around under its own steam.

  "Bet you're in your element, aren't you?" Miles said, grimacing at Carruthers as he trudged through the snow. "Probably start dancing with joy if there's a snowstorm later."

  Carruthers marched with conviction, each stride twice the length of Miles'. The latter had to canter in order to keep up.

  "I am at home on the ice, yes," Carruthers admitted, "though I worry for Miss Simons' feet, naturally." They had paused at the doorway so that they might wrap themselves in as many layers of spare clothing as they could and improvise some more suitable footwear for Penelope. On each foot she was now wearing four pairs of socks and three pillowcases, so that her legs looked like a turkey's, white-capped for display on the carvery table.

  "They're probably warmer than mine," Miles moaned. "Trainers aren't suited for snow."

  "They are very silly shoes," Carruthers agreed. "I can't understand why you wear them – they're quite impractical and, if you'll forgive me saying so, look rather foolish."

  "All the rage where I come from, pal," said Miles, "an era in which, 'if you'll forgive me saying so,' you would have looked a right tit."

  "A bird? Save me from the future, it's like a foreign country."

  "'They do things differently there.'"

  "Clearly so."

  "It's a quote."

  "Probably from one of your silly future books… 'they do things differently in the future'… hardly Shakespeare, is it?"

  "The quote's actually… oh, never mind, it's hardly important." He looked up at the mountain ahead. "How tall do you think that is?"

  "Compared to the peaks of Tibet it's a mere foothill."

  "Oh yes, we'll be up it in half an hour."

  "We'll be fine."

  "Including Ashe, it would seem," said Miles. "He's pretty spry for an old guy."

  Ashe was walking alongside Penelope a few feet behind them. It was clear that he was slowing his pace for her sake rather than the other way around.

  "We'll see how he manages with the altitude," said Carruthers, "that's the real challenge on a trek like this."

  "Foothill my arse."

  "They are very crude in the future too, I have noticed, always talking about their rumps."

  "Don't come the puritan with me, the Victorians were a filthy bunch."

  "I can assure you I am entirely pure. My body is slave to my mind, not the reverse as seems the case with you."

  "Oh, my body's slaved to my mind too, it's the things the mind makes it want to do that are the problem."

  "Most amusing."

  "Mind you, in this temperature it doesn't want to do a thing. Be like trying to knock a nail in with an overcooked broad bean."

  "Dear Lord, save me from this man's corrupting influence…"

  The ground began to rise as they approached the mountain, their calf and thigh muscles aching and their pace slowing.

  "Not exactly what I expected," Ashe commented, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he tried to keep them warm.

  "I've thought that at every step so far in this house," Penelope replied. "What next? Volcanoes in the coal scuttle?"

  Ashe chuckled. "An ocean in the bathroom?"

  "Exactly, filled with tropical fish."

  "I like sailing. I'd prefer it to a trek like this."

  "You don't appear to be struggling much."

  "I try and keep fit."

  "Obviously, you make me look like a sloven."

  "I have the benefit of shoes, it makes quite a difference."

  "Actually my feet are incredibly comfortable, warm and padded – they're the only part of me that's enjoying themselves."

  "Perhaps I should try the same method," Ashe muttered, "I think my toes are snapping off one by one."

  It took them an hour or so to reach the base of the mountain. Carruthers clambered up into the rocks, surveying the trail that lay ahead.

  "Aha," he shouted, brushing at a ridge in the snow to reveal a thick wooden banister, "I think I've found the way up." He squatted down, continuing to sweep away the snow. What had looked like undulations in the rock were in fact stairs.

  "Well," said Ashe, "that should make things easier."

  "You wouldn't think that if you'd ever walked to street level from the platform of Covent Garden tube," replied Miles.

  "I have!" Ashe replied. "Never use an elevator when stairs will do."

  "The man's mad," Miles muttered, "absolutely insane."

  "Or simply fitter than you," Penelope said with a smug smile.

  "Yes," Miles said, "thank you for noticing that."

  They began to climb the stairs, Carruthers leading the way. To begin with, the climb seemed easy enough. The snow blurred the definition between the stairs but the banister was a useful guide and they found their rhythm. After a while their legs began to ache, and the effort to keep lifting them slowed their pace to a crawl.

  "My legs are going numb," said Penelope, "they keep wobbling."

  "Your muscles are cramping," Carruthers replied. "We'll stop and rest in a minute, just a few more steps."

  They climbed in silence, each of them too breathless to talk. Miles had to grab the banister tightly for fear of toppling. His legs jerked beneath him. The tops of his thighs pulsed with muscle pain, the only sensation in limbs that otherwise felt no part of him. "No good," he huffed, "have to stop." He sat down on one of the steps, his head dropping between his shaking legs as he tried to slow his breathing. The others followed suit, only too happy to rest.

  "We have barely even begun," said Carruthers after a few moments, "though, believe me, I wish I could say otherwise."

  "Any worthwhile journey is hard," commented Ashe.

  "That's all right then," said Miles, "I'll think of that while enjoying my coronary."

  "We will take it slowly," said Carruthers. "Tackle a short section, rest, then tackle another."

  "How long do you think it's going to take?" asked Penelope.

  "I wouldn't like to say, my dear."

  "Days," said Ashe, "at least two, more likely three."

  "I'm not sure I can bear the thought of sitting on a mountain for three days," said Miles. "How about we pop back through to the library and see if we can't find a door that's less crippling?"

  "No," said Ashe, "this is the right way."

  "How would you know?" scoffed Miles "With all due respect, mate, you've only just got here, so maybe you're not quite the expert, eh?"

  "Don't be horrible, Miles!" Penelope snapped.

  "It's all right," Ashe said to her, "he's right. But I feel this is the right way."

  "Perhaps you might feel your way towards giving me a piggyback then?" Miles replied.

  "Miles!" Penelope turned to him. "Why are you being so beastly to Gregory? It's hardly his fault, is it?"

  Miles looked at Carruthers, who had sat in silence throughout. He gave no sign of having heard the conversation. Sighing, Miles held up his hands. "Sorry," he said, "I'm just tired and pissed off, I don't mean to take it out on anyone."

  "I should think not," scolded Penelope.

  "Please," said Ashe, "it's fine. You've been through a lot, I quite understand. Maybe we should just go back…?"

  "No," said Carruthers, finally snapping his eyes away from the distant wall of the room. "We'll go on." He got to his feet and continued to climb. They hiked for several hours, breaking the steps up into small batches and taking regular breaks.

  "We need to find somewhere to shelter," Ashe suggested after a while. "Get our strength back."

  "We weren't prepared for this," Penelope added. "Walking through the house… that's one thing. This…"

  "Ashe is right," said Carruthers, "we need shelter."

  "Yeah… not a lot of that about," Miles said, rubbing at his aching chest.

  "Let's go on a little further," Ashe suggested. "When we get around the next bend we might see somewhere."

  "Or we might not," said Miles.

  "No harm in trying," Carruthers said, "a few more minutes won't kill us."

  "Speak for yourself," Penelope replied.

  They got back to their feet and followed the stairs a short distance. They worked their way around a fold in the mountain, entering a shallow groove in the landscape. There was a forceful wind blowing by now, stirring the dry powder of the snow into eddies that danced around their feet as they pulled themselves further on. The recess allowed them a small amount of cover but Carruthers knew it wouldn't be enough to protect them while they camped. They had their bedrolls and a few sheets that he had intended to rig up as a tent but in these conditions they needed greater protection if they wanted to survive the night.

  "There!" shouted Ashe, pointing to a circle of darkness in the cliff face ahead.

  Carruthers smiled and forged on with renewed energy. "A cave!" he shouted, above the increasing wind, "a perfect place to rest for the night."

  Within a few minutes they were out of the wind. Carruthers lit a lantern and walked ahead to see how far the cave extended. "Come in!" he shouted, beckoning the rest of them away from the daylight. "You might be pleasantly surprised!"

  The narrow tunnel opened into a furnished cavern. An embroidered
chaise-longue
rested its curved feet against the tufts of a bearskin rug. Two sofas proffered their fat cushions to the weary travellers and a large wrought-iron grate sat – prepared to be lit – at the end closest to the exit. "All the home comforts!" Carruthers announced. "There's even a gramophone!" He wound the machine up, then dropped the heavy brass-mounted needle on to a crackling Ennio Morricone record. A narrow passage extended deeper into the mountain and Carruthers went exploring.

  "Am I the only one who finds this somewhat disconcerting?" Miles asked.

  "You said yourself: there's no accounting for logic in this place," said Ashe, dropping on to the
chaise-longue
with a relaxed sigh. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

  "Well," said Penelope, "there's no doubt we wouldn't last the night out there, so I don't see we have much choice."