Always Forever (70 page)

There was one hanging moment when they feared whoever was within had
left them to die, but then came the sound of heavy bolts being drawn.

The Redcaps were ahead of the driving wall of Fomorii, jumping and
leaping like crazed tigers. One of the Tuatha De Danann guards attempted to
fend them off to give the others more time. They fell on him in a frenzy.

The door swung open and a voice shouted, "Quick!"

Shavi led them in, horses and all, and then the doors slammed shut with a
sound like the tolling of a bell.

Within the Abbey there was an abiding stillness. The thick stone walls muffled
the noise of the terrible force without, but all Shavi was aware of was the
thunder of the blood in his brain. The entire building was filled with the iron
tang of the Blue Fire, too potent, he was sure, for the Fomorii to attempt to
enter. Yet as he came to terms with the amazing fact that they were safe, he
gradually took in his surroundings and was overcome with surprise.

The vast body of the Abbey was filled as far as he could see with pale, silent
faces. Men and women, old, middle-aged and young, babies and children, all
looking up with expressions riven by fear. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder,
turned towards the new arrivals, or slumped on pews or on the stone floor, at
first glance barely human; sheep, he thought, even less than that.

But there was humanity behind the fear, although it was of a pathetic kind,
of people desperately trying to cope with a paralysing disbelief that everything
they understood had crumbled in an instant.

"Who are you?" It was the voice of the man who had spoken to them
through the door. He was in his early fifties, stylishly dressed, with a sallow face,
cropped grey hair and designer glasses. He appeared to notice the Tuatha De
Danann for the first time. "Who are they? Are they-?"

"Friends." Shavi rested a calming hand on the man's shoulder. He glanced
once more at the expectant mass. Around the edges of the nave were empty cans
and boxes, the remains of whatever food supplies they had brought with them,
but many of the faces looked hungry. "How long have you been in here?"

"From the moment it all blew up. It took everyone by surprise. We scrambled in here with what we could grab, a few provisions, not enough ... How in
heaven's name did you manage to get here? We thought everyone else must be
dead by now." His voice died; there were tears in his eyes. "We can't go outside.
A few tried it, to get more food." He shook his head, looked at his shoes.

Laura pulled Shavi over to one side. "This is a nightmare. They're either
going to starve or go outside and get slaughtered."

"We are in the same predicament."

"Yes, but they're not like us. They're normal people. That shit is part of our
job description, not theirs."

Shavi still couldn't comprehend how much she had altered. Not so long ago
she would have been advocating self-preservation at all costs, and now she was
urging them to accept their responsibility. Could someone really change that much? "You are right," he said, smiling. "We owe them what little hope we have,
at the very least." He turned to the sallow-faced man. "Are you in charge here?"

He shook his head. "You want Professor Michell, I suppose. He's not really
in charge. But he makes decisions. Any decisions that need making."

"Then," Shavi prompted, "could you take us to him?"

The nave was beautiful and awe-inspiring, with fabulous monuments on either
side. An air of solemnity hung over it. As they passed through, brief hope flared
in the eyes of the refugees. Some held out their hands like the Victorian poor,
silently begging for food. A Nigerian woman, overweight in a too-tight coat,
offered a tentative smile, her eyes flooded with tears. Children stared blankly into
the shadows. A girl in a blue dress, Sunday-best smart, as if she'd been on her way
to a special function when her life had been arrested, said, "Have you seen my
mummy? I'm waiting for her." Babies shuddered with sobs drained of tears. Shavi
and Laura tried to offer reassuring smiles to the first few, but the emotional cost
was too great and they averted their eyes for the remainder of the long walk.

To distract herself, Laura nodded to a monument in the centre of the nave.
"What's that?"

"The tomb of the Unknown Soldier." Shavi had stood in front of it before,
but this time it was laden with meaning. "An unidentified British soldier
brought back from a French battlefield during the Great War. He represents all
the victims of that great tragedy, indeed, all the lowly warriors who have since
given their lives in conflict."

Beyond the nave were the aisles to the choir, which was also packed with
refugees. Shavi paused to examine the monuments that lined the walls. Now everything he saw was filled with so much meaning, the emotion was welling up and
threatening to overflow. "This is what we are losing," he said gravely. "Not fast cars
and computers and mobile phones. This is what truly matters." He pointed to each
monument in turn. "Elgar. Purcell. John Wesley. William Wilberforce. Charles
Darwin." He pointed towards the south transept. "Down there, Poets' Corner:
Chaucer, Auden, Shakespeare, Shelley, Blake, Keats, Dryden, Spenser, Jonson,
Milton, the Brontes, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Coleridge, Dickens, Kipling-"

"Don't get maudlin on me, Shav-ster," Laura said gloomily. She wandered
off ahead.

Eventually the sallow-faced man brought them to St. Edward the Confessor's
Chapel, the sacred heart of the abbey where its most precious relics lay. Here a
man in his sixties, with shoulder-length, straggly grey hair, sat wearily in a
Gothic, high-backed chair. He was painfully thin, his wrists protruding skele tally from the fraying arms of an old, woollen overcoat. Behind his wire-rimmed
glasses, his face suggested a man burdened by the greatest of worries, but underneath it Shavi saw integrity and intelligence.

The sallow-faced man hurried over and whispered in his ear. Without
looking up, the Professor gestured exhaustedly for Shavi and the others to
approach. When they were in front of him, he cast a brief eye over them, but if
he felt any shock at the sight of the Tuatha De Danann, he didn't register it.
"More strays sheltering from the storm?" His voice was achingly tired.

"We are here to confront the invaders," Shavi said.

He counted them off silently. "So many of you. Did you really need to come
so mob-handed?"

"We're only part of it," Laura said. "The best part, sure, but there are others.
Lots of them. There's a war going on." She gestured towards the Tuatha De
Danann. "These-"

The Professor acknowledged them with a nod. "Old gods made new again.
I expected they were around, though I haven't seen any of them till now."

"Who are you?" Shavi asked.

"The wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time." He removed his
glasses and rubbed his eyes for a long period. "An academic. Just what the world
needs now. Even better, one versed in anthropology." He laughed bitterly.

"So how did you get the top job?" Laura watched the sallow-faced man slope
away.

"Someone had to do it. Not that there's anything to do, apart from preventing everyone from killing themselves. Though even that may be an exercise
in futility."

The Tuatha De Danann shifted awkwardly until Baccharus silently
motioned to Shavi that he was taking them back to the horses.

"So, introductions. My name is Brian Michell. And you are?"

Shavi and Laura introduced themselves before briefly outlining what was
happening in the city. Michell listened thoughtfully, nodding at the correct
moments. When they had finished, he said, "When I first saw those horrible
things out there I knew they were the template for all the worst things in our
old myths. There was something inexpressibly ancient about them, something
laden with symbolism. It was only a matter of time before the ones responsible
for the other archetypes appeared."

"You'd get on well with our own old git," Laura said. "Same language, same
old bollocks."

"I still haven't worked out why they haven't come in here to tear us apart."

Shavi explained as best he could about the Blue Fire, but Michell picked up on the concept quickly. "Good old woolly-minded New Agers. I always knew
they were on to something. The spiritual wellhead, eh? Then I suppose it's only
natural this place is a potent source of it. It's been a sacred spot for as long as
man's been around, so the legends say. A divine island in prehistoric times,
bounded by the Thames and the two arms of the River Tyburn that's now buried
in pipes. The old Isle of Thorns, sacred to the Druids. Later, sacred to Apollo,
where his temple was sited. Home of numerous other now long-lost religious
monuments. And still giving up all it has to our generation. Amazing." He
forced a smile.

"What have you been doing for all those people?" Laura asked.

"Ensuring the little food we had was distributed fairly. Not much to do in
that quarter now. In the early days, mediate in disputes. Try to keep them from
taking their frustrations out on each other. They turned to me because they
thought, being an educated man, I know about things. Now isn't that a laugh?
I haven't even been able to look after my own life. The wife, God bless her, left
long ago. Sick of all my cant. And the booze, I suppose. Haven't had a drink
since I came in here. Now isn't that a thing? They should have examined my
curriculum vitae a little more closely."

"Whatever you say, I am sure you are the right man for the job. You have
held them together," Shavi said. Michell shrugged, wouldn't meet Shavi's eye.
"I would like to talk to them," Shavi continued.

Michell chewed on a flayed nail, his eyes now fixed on Shavi's face. "And say
what to them? I don't want you making their last days any more miserable."

"He's not going to do that." Laura grinned. "Shavi here's the preacher-boy.
He's going to uplift their souls."

"I want to tell them there is still hope."

The Professor winced, shook his head. "I think we've all had enough fairy
stories."

Shavi rested a hand on the Professor's thin fingers, which felt unbearably
cold. "I ask you to trust me."

A tremor ran through Shavi as he ascended to the pulpit and looked down at the
array of pale faces turned towards him. There was too much emotion there. It
made him feel he wasn't up to the task, not even slightly. I am just a London boy,
he wanted to say. Not a shaman, not a hero, not a saviour.

But after a moment, his heart took over and the words flowed to his mouth
without any thought. "For centuries, this has been a place of miracles ..

They made their base in one of the Sir Christopher Wren-designed twin towers
on the western side. Outside, night had fallen; without any lights in the city,
the Abbey felt like it was suspended in space.

The Tuatha De Danann settled easily in one corner of the gloomy old room
and rested their eyes. Shavi was still not sure if they actually slept.

"That was a good thing you did," Laura said quietly as she, Shavi and Baccharus sat around a stubby candle from the Abbey's store. "You could see it in
their faces. What you did for them ... amazing. I couldn't have done it. No one
else could have done it." She gave Shavi's thigh a squeeze. "You missed your
calling, preacher-boy."

"Hope is a human essential."

"Hope is essential for all things in the sweep of existence." Baccharus stared
at the flickering candle flame. It is common currency, too often in short
supply." He looked up at Shavi. "And to give hope is the greatest gift of all."

"Oh, don't. His head's big enough already." Laura rested on Shavi's shoulder.
After a moment she said, "So what are we going to do? We can't sit here forever."

"I fear we have been removed from the conflict," Baccharus said. "Unless my
people can fight their way through to us, or one of the others achieves something
remarkable that changes the situation, there is little we can do." His voice suggested he didn't expect it to happen.

"But it's so pathetic," Laura protested. "We didn't do anything! We barely
got into the city!"

"No," Shavi said. "I have to ensure the cauldron is there for the final battle.
Laura and I both need to be there. We have to find a way."

Baccharus held out his hand in equanimity. "But there is nothing we can
do. We are surrounded by a city of Night Walkers where we cannot move the
slightest step without being cut down. The wise one accepts when events are
beyond control."

Laura looked from Baccharus to Shavi. "So we sit here waiting to die?"

"Or," Shavi said, "waiting to live."

At some point the quiet conversation became a distant drone and Laura's eyelids
grew heavy, although a dim part of her was amazed that she could even consider
sleeping. When she next stirred she realised the talk had stopped. Baccharus was
lying next to the guttering candle, his eyes closed. Shavi was nowhere to be seen.