The Parliament of Blood Page 10

  ‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ the voice said. ‘But Sir Harrison Judd was looking for Mr Archer.’

  The man was standing close to them on the balcony, though George had not heard him arrive. He wore a black cloak and his mask was a skull that seemed to cover his whole head. It made George shiver just to look at it.

  ‘My apologies,’ the skull-faced man said. He took a step back and gestured for George and Clarissa to return to the main room.

  ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’ George forced himself to glance at the man and smile as he stepped back through the door. The eyes of the skull were as dark and empty as Clarissa’s had been.

  A few minutes after Charlie disappeared into the back of the Damnation Club, the coach moved off. Eddie was left alone in the street, wondering what he should do. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that he should talk to Charlie.

  Either the boy had somehow faked his own death, or he’d been revived. Eddie shuddered as he remembered the last time he had met a man supposed to be dead. But that man had been very different – he’d looked dead. Even from a distant glimpse, Eddie had seen that while Charlie was muddy and pale, he had a spring in his step, an enthusiasm … He had looked happy.

  ‘What’s the trick then, eh?’ Eddie murmured.

  Another figure was coming down the street – another boy about the same age as Eddie and Charlie. He was dressed in a smart dark suit, and like Charlie he looked pale but full of life. Eddie shrank back into the shadows to let him pass by. Then he hurried after the boy to catch him up.

  ‘You going to the Damnation Club, then?’ Eddie asked.

  The boy looked at him with large, dark eyes. He seemed to be sizing Eddie up, and Eddie didn’t like it.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Eddie reassured the boy – as a joke to break the sudden tense atmosphere as much as anything. ‘I’m dead too.’

  The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly. His voice was strangely flat and without emotion. ‘Who are you? Are you here to serve?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Eddie said quickly. ‘My name’s Eddie. It’s my first time though. So I’ll stick with you if that’s all right. You can show me the ropes.’

  The boy was smiling as they reached the door. He pulled his collar down, and in the light from the Club, Eddie could see a thick raw red line across his neck. To one side there were scratches and scars.

  ‘I’ll show you the ropes all right,’ the boy said. ‘They hanged me, you know.’

  Eddie hesitated, his own smile frozen on his face. He had probably gone as pale as the boy. By the time they had reached a small room at the back of the Damnation Club, Eddie was wondering if he shouldn’t have legged it when he had the chance.

  The only furniture in the oak-panelled room was a low table. From it, several golden faces stared at Eddie. Masks – cherubs. The boy he was with picked one up and put it on. When he turned to look at Eddie, it was like a statue had come to life.

  ‘You have no suit,’ the boy said. ‘The Coachman won’t be pleased.’

  ‘He’ll have to lump it then, won’t he,’ Eddie said. He dusted himself down and buttoned his threadbare jacket over his grubby shirt. ‘This’ll have to do.’ Then he put on one of the masks.

  The boy led him along a dimly lit corridor to a foyer at the front of the building. Several of the cherub-masked boys were taking trays of drinks through to a large ballroom and returning with trays of empty glasses, which they took down another corridor – perhaps to be washed.

  Without waiting to be told, Eddie took a tray and went into the ballroom. There must have been a hundred people or more dancing or watching, or talking, or drinking. All of them were wearing masks. In amongst them, boys in golden masks carried their trays, and Eddie fixed on each in turn as he made his way slowly through the room. Fortunately, while the mask came over the top of the head like a hat, it did not reach far down the back. Eddie was looking for a cherub with a shock of dishevelled fair hair under his mask.

  He was distracted from his search by a figure beckoning him over. Eddie changed course to carry his tray over to a woman wearing the face of a bird of prey and a wolf-faced man. Eddie let them take drinks, and then turned away.

  His path took him close to a corner of the room where two men were talking heatedly. One of them wore a mask that was half black and half white, divided down the middle. The other wore a cloak and his face was a skull – the Coachman who had brought Charlie here.

  Eddie edged closer, trying to look as if he was just going about his business with his tray while getting near enough to listen in on their argument.

  ‘They should not both be here together,’ the Coachman was saying. ‘You approved the guest list.’

  ‘I did not know that Malvern would bring her,’ the other man retorted. ‘How could I?’

  ‘We need the man alone, isolated. With no one to turn to for advice. Least of all her. With her connections. Clarissa and Harrison did well to keep them apart.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that they even knew each other,’ the man with the black and white mask said.

  ‘Then you should have been,’ the Coachman rasped. ‘I will not tolerate this incompetence. And neither will …’ He broke off, and seemed to gather himself. ‘We must move quickly now. To distract the girl, and to protect ourselves.’

  The skull-face swung round, and Eddie quickly moved away. But as he did, he caught the Coachman’s parting words:

  ‘It is time I went. While she is here, I can complete what should have been done years ago. It will be a fine story to tell my sister when she wakes.’ He gathered his cloak about him and swept past Eddie. A woman wearing a cat mask and a pale green dress was waiting for the Coachman on the other side of the room.

  On his way across to meet her, the Coachman passed another waiter, and patted him on the shoulder – an almost affectionate gesture. The boy turned to watch the man go, and Eddie could see the mass of fair hair under the back of his mask.

  There were still several full glasses of wine on the tray, so Eddie put it back with the other trays of wine ready to be taken into the ballroom.

  Then, walking with a confident stride which he hoped made it look like he was doing something he was supposed to be doing, he followed the fair-haired boy. He was sure it was Charlie, though either he’d brushed the dirt from his clothes or had changed into a clean suit. He was carrying a tray of empty glasses.

  Charlie headed out of the foyer down a passageway. The passage was empty apart from the two of them, and as soon as Charlie was passing a doorway, Eddie called out to him.

  ‘Charlie!’

  The boy stopped, and slowly turned to face Eddie. ‘What do you want?’ It was Charlie’s voice, and yet it wasn’t – again it seemed flat and empty.

  Eddie walked right up to him before he pulled off his own mask to reveal himself. ‘Remember me, do you?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Eddie? What are you doing here? You’re not …’ Charlie turned to go – perhaps to tell someone there was an intruder.

  But Eddie was quicker. He flung his arms round Charlie before the boy could move, and bundled him through the door, kicking it shut behind them.

  The room was not very large. It was dimly lit by flickering wall lights. There was a small reading table with two upright chairs, and several bookcases against the walls. The windows at the end of the room were unshuttered and the panes of glass were like black mirrors against the night outside.

  Charlie stumbled and fell as he staggered back from Eddie. The tray went flying and a glass shattered loudly on the surface of the table. Eddie was off balance too, and collapsed close to Charlie. His hand came down on a shard of broken wineglass, and he gave a cry of pain and surprise.

  Above him, Charlie had got up again and was pulling off his mask. He glared angrily at Eddie. ‘Why are you here?’ he hissed. ‘You’ll spoil everything.’ Then he blinked and his expression changed. ‘You’ve cut yourself,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  ‘L
ike you care.’ Eddie pulled himself to his feet and wiped his wounded palm down his jacket. More blood welled up along the cut, but it wasn’t too deep. It would soon stop. ‘What’s happened to you, Charlie? We’re mates, right?’

  Charlie walked slowly towards him. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he repeated. He lunged suddenly at Eddie, who darted behind the table – keeping it between the two of them.

  ‘What have they done to you? So what if I’m bleeding?’

  The boy’s lips curled into something like a smile, and he slammed his own hand down on the fragments of glass on the table. Eddie winced just watching, but Charlie’s smile did not falter. He lifted his hand, and several of the pieces of glass were sticking out of it. Not taking his eyes off Eddie, Charlie pulled them out.

  ‘I can’t bleed,’ he said quietly. He held his hand out to prove it. ‘Why don’t you come over, join us, Eddie? You’d like it. I’ve never felt so alive.’

  Eddie continued to work his way round the table, seriously rattled now. If he could get to the door, he could make a run for it. The sooner he got away from this place, the better.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come,’ he said. If he could keep Charlie distracted he might yet make it. ‘Forget I was here, all right? Whatever you’re up to, I won’t tell no one. You make the most of it. I’m pleased for you, Charlie. Really I am.’

  Eddie had his back to the door. Charlie was leaning over the table, facing Eddie. Beyond him, Eddie could see his own reflection staring back at him from the dark window. He looked pale and flustered. And he saw his eyes widen in fear as he realised that while he could see the room – the table, himself – there was no sign of Charlie. The boy opposite him cast no reflection. More than the blood and the grave and the change in character, that frightened Eddie.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Charlie said. ‘You’ll enjoy it. Once it’s done.’

  There was the sound of people from the corridor outside.

  ‘Just let it happen, Eddie.’ He made it sound so simple. ‘Just die.’

  Eddie didn’t ask for an explanation. There was definitely someone in the corridor, and he was trapped. The only other way out was the window.

  So he put his head down and charged. Eddie slammed into Charlie as the boy moved to intercept him. Eddie wrapped his arms round Charlie and carried him along by the sheer force of his momentum. He could see his reflected self hurtling towards the window, arms wrapped round … nothing.

  Despite the reflection, two bodies slammed into the window. Wood and glass exploded outwards. The noise was deafening. Eddie and Charlie were thrown apart by the impact and Eddie found himself rolling across grass, bruised and numbed. He was in a small garden beside the building, bounded by a high wall.

  He was on his feet again immediately, ready to run for the wall before Charlie or anyone else could stop him. He could easily climb the rough stonework. But Eddie glanced back – and saw Charlie lying where he had fallen in the middle of a sea of broken glass. A wooden strut from the window was poking up through the boy’s shirt. His hand was stretched out towards Eddie, fingers clutching the air.

  The broken glass reflected broken images of the scene as Eddie hurried back to Charlie. He took the boy’s cold hand. But Charlie himself did not appear in the reflections.

  ‘I’ll get help,’ Eddie said. ‘It’ll be all right, Charlie. I promise.’

  ‘No it won’t,’ Charlie gasped. ‘It’s too late. But you done the right thing, Eddie. Don’t let them get you. Don’t listen to their promises.’ He gripped Eddie’s hand tight. His voice was barely a whisper: ‘Thank you.’ Then Charlie’s hand was limp, falling back across his body.

  Blood welled up round the wooden strut in his chest. The reflection of a dead boy faded into the broken glass. Shouts came from inside the Damnation Club, and Eddie ran for the wall.

  CHAPTER 9

  There was a chill breeze coming from the window. The curtains had blown slightly open and the light of the moon fell across the blankets on Horace Oldfield’s bed.

  He struggled to sit up, wondering what had woken him. It might have been the draught, or perhaps a sound from outside. From the bed he could see the back wall of the tiny garden behind the house. Built into it was an old outhouse. The brickwork was pitted and scarred and the roof was missing more than a few tiles. But the door was securely fastened and locked – and never opened. Even Oldfield himself had not been inside for years. Not since …

  His mind was wandering, and he made an effort to bring it back to the present. He had been ill. Collapsed or fainted. Liz had said so, though all he remembered was the blackness. Blackness so intense it made him shiver. Blackness and shadow and darkness and death.

  On an impulse, he reached back under his pillow. But the movement made him suddenly aware of the deepest shadows just inside the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Oldfield called. He could just make out a shape – the silhouette of a young woman. His throat was dry and his voice was cracked and weak. ‘Liz – is that you?’

  ‘Your daughter had to go out,’ a voice replied from closer to the bed. A dark figure stepped forward, into the moonlight shining through the window.

  Oldfield turned back towards the door. ‘Then – who?’ He gave a gasp of astonishment as a dark-haired woman in a pale green dress stepped into the light.

  ‘She’s abandoned you,’ Clarissa said quietly. ‘Just as you abandoned me.’

  ‘Never!’ Oldfield insisted. ‘Why have you come back to me? What have you done with Liz?’

  ‘Nothing. Not yet.’ The second figure was wearing a dark cloak. But it was his face that now transfixed Oldfield.

  The face of a skull.

  ‘Who are you?’ the old man demanded.

  The skull-faced figure’s reply was a rattle of dry laughter. ‘You know who I am. And whose coach I drive. You met my sister Belamis many years ago – can you ever forget?’

  Oldfield struggled backwards, pressing against the head of the bed, the pillow tight at his back. ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘No – it can’t be!’

  ‘That is what I said when they told me about you,’ Clarissa told him, walking slowly towards the bed. ‘After all these years. All these unkind years. You could have stayed so young.’ She was beside him now, reaching out a pale hand and stroking down Oldfield’s trembling cheek. Wiping away the single tear.

  ‘Clarissa,’ he murmured. He closed his eyes, remembering.

  The woman sighed. ‘But now you will have to be old. For ever.’

  Oldfield’s eyes snapped open in horror. ‘You can’t …’ he stammered.

  Clarissa smiled sadly. ‘Oh, Horace. We already have.’

  ‘But – my daughter!’

  The Coachman was standing beside Clarissa. ‘Your daughter will be very well looked after, I assure you.’ He leaned over the bed.

  The skull all but filled Oldfield’s world. That and the hard edge of the box under the pillow. He grasped it tight, pulling it free.

  ‘We owe you that, at least,’ Clarissa’s voice said from the darkness.

  ‘You owe me nothing but death,’ Oldfield said.

  Clarissa sighed. ‘I’m afraid it will be a long time before you go to heaven.’

  Oldfield brought the silver box from behind him. His fingers were trembling as he struggled to undo the clasp. ‘Then it’s time you both went to hell!’

  The skull drew back. The broken, discoloured teeth opened. But the sound that came out was brittle laughter. A bony hand pointed to the silver box with its embossed crucifix on the lid. ‘A cross? How very quaint. You threaten us with symbols?’

  ‘And silver,’ Oldfield said. He was relieved and pleased to see that the skull-faced man drew back slightly. ‘And faith.’

  The laughter had stopped. But the dark figures did not withdraw. The Coachman and Clarissa stood motionless, framed against the pale moonlight from the window.

  Oldfield had finally undone the clasp. ‘And this,’ he said, as he opened the lid.

  Clariss
a’s scream joined the Coachman’s cries of fury and fear as the contents of the box were revealed.

  The man was hurrying along the pavement. His dark cloak spread out behind him as he staggered towards a carriage waiting further down the street. A woman was already climbing quickly inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Liz could see the two pale horses waiting patiently as the man clambered with some difficulty up to the driving seat.

  ‘Do you think we should help?’ she asked Malvern, who was checking his watch.

  ‘Probably spent too long in the nearest public house,’ Malvern said, but he did look concerned. Their carriage was drawing up opposite Liz’s house.

  The other carriage moved quickly off, disappearing into the night. Liz caught sight of the woman inside, framed at the window, staring back at her.

  ‘Whoever they are, they’ll be fine.’ Malvern smiled. ‘Just late for an appointment, I expect. May I walk with you to your door?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The driver opened the carriage door and Malvern climbed out before helping Liz down to the pavement.

  ‘I do hope Father is all right,’ she said. ‘I had not intended to stay out so long.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  As they approached, Liz saw that the front door was standing slightly open. She couldn’t have left it like that – Malvern had been with her, and one of them would have noticed. Suddenly afraid, she ran to the house.

  She hurried up the stairs and into her father’s room. Gasping with relief, Liz saw that her father was still there, in the bed. But as her eyes adapted to the dim light, she saw that he was sprawled back against the pillows and headboard. The blankets and sheets were in disarray, as if he had struggled to be free of them. The curtains were blowing in the breeze from outside.

  And a dark shape lifted from the pillow close to Horace Oldfield’s head. Black wings beat the air, propelling the creature towards the moonlight outside.

  Liz gave a startled shriek and jumped back as it flapped past her and through the open window. She saw it flying rapidly across the garden, heading for the back wall, for her father’s old outhouse and the gardens and streets beyond …