Any Other Name (8 page)

“No,
you
will.” He took a step towards her, but the way she flinched made him pause. What was she turning him into? This wasn’t the kind of husband he wanted to be. He shut his eyes, not able to look at her a moment longer. “You need to give your attitude some serious thought,” he said, picking up his jacket from the floor, desperate to get out of the apartment and away from the way she was making him feel. “I’m not going to wait forever.”

 

6

 

A muscle near Sam’s eye twitched as Poppy stared at the five poor bastards he’d dragged back into Exillium. They were barely able to stand, their legs spattered with dried mud spots from the motorway, their hair lank and messy.

“Well… I suppose I could find a use for them. If they were cleaned up and dressed properly…”

“And given some food and something to drink, for Christ’s sake.” Sam was losing his patience.

“And if you’re willing to give me something in return.”

Sam knew that was coming a mile off. “Yes, if they’ll be cared for and treated well.”

Poppy’s smile was broad and reminded Sam of an alligator eyeing up a lone water buffalo. “Let’s see… there are five little waifs so I would ask for an utterly trivial five years of your life. One for each.”

Sam clenched his fists. Clare was staring at him.

“It’s such a generous offer,” Poppy said. “Take this poor thing.” He grabbed Clare’s wrist and pulled her away from the others. She started to shake. “I’ll have to feed and clothe her, give her somewhere safe to sleep – mundanes have so many needs – for eternity. Only one year of your life is a trifling amount in comparison, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam looked into her eyes. She was more than terrified, she was angry and blaming him for the latest indignity they were being subjected to. Five years off his life wasn’t so bad. It would be easier to avoid some of the creeping misery of old age than the guilt of failing to make a deal to save them. His grandmother struggled for years with arthritis and the slow decline of dementia. Maybe it would be a blessing in disguise.

“Deal.”

“Wonderful!” Poppy plucked a flower from those clustered about his feet and blew across its petals, sending a shower of sparkles deeper into the trees of his domain. “Follow them, little slaves. There will be food and pools of deep water for you to frolic in.” He watched them leave and called, “I expect to see frolicking of the highest order when I arrive!”

“I’m going.” Sam needed to be in a pub. He needed to be so drunk he couldn’t remember what he’d done.

“Before you do, would you be so kind as to go and pick three blades of grass for me from over there?” Poppy pointed down the path out of the clearing.

“Why?”

“Please? It won’t take you very long.”

Sam set off. If a piano was going to fall out of the sky as he picked it, or the Lord of Grass turn up and demand his belly-button for payment or some other Fae crap, he just wanted to get it out of the way.

He returned with the grass held between thumb and forefinger and held it out to Poppy.

“How long did that take?” Poppy asked and before Sam could reply the faerie spoke from a little way away. Sam hadn’t even noticed it was there.

“Four minutes,” it replied and Sam followed the voice to spot it amongst the trees, sitting on an hourglass ten times its size. The sand seemed to be frozen mid-flow.

“So how many are left?”

“Ooooh, lots.”

“How many exactly?”

It looked surprised by Poppy’s question. “Exactly… in numbers?” When Poppy nodded it looked up for a few moments and then said “Two million, six hundred and twenty seven thousand, nine hundred and ninety six.” It wrinkled its nose and coughed. “Urgh. Mathematics tastes horrid.”

“Goodness.” Poppy turned back to Sam. “When it’s broken into the tiny bits you seem to value, five years sounds like much more time.”

Sam realised what the hourglass represented. “Now just hang on one fucking minute – you mean I have to do whatever you want for a total of five years?”

“Yes.” Poppy twisted his cane with a horribly smug look on his face.

“Not five years off the end of my life?”

Poppy frowned. “Goodness, no. Why ever would I want your worst years? Or did you think you would die earlier? Oh! What a fascinating misunderstanding. You were willing to die sooner for those waifs? How noble.”

Sam pinched the skin between his eyebrows to stave off the headache spreading across his skull.

“Not all at once,” Poppy said. “Every now and again. Half an hour here, five minutes there.”

“That’s it, I’m going,” Sam said. “Fuck this. Fuck all of it.”

“See you soon!” Poppy called.

Sam raised his middle finger and held it aloft as he left the clearing. Thankfully, it seemed the Fae didn’t know what it meant.

When Cathy was certain Will wasn’t coming back straightaway, she went into the bedroom and freed herself from the wedding dress. She ended up ripping some of the seams as she couldn’t reach all of the tiny buttons at the back but the sound of the fabric tearing was wonderfully cathartic. When the dress was nothing but a pool of beaded silk around her feet she jumped up and down on it a few times and then kicked it across the room until she realised how childish she was being. The tears started.

She let them fall as she unlaced the corset and peeled off the stockings. She brushed her fingertips over the red marks the corset’s bones had left in her skin and remembered the new curse they’d put on her. The one her father had placed on her had been removed that morning and she only knew that because she’d overheard a brief and cryptic exchange between her parents during the reception. She’d been curse-free for less than an hour.

An experimental tug on the wedding ring confirmed her suspicion; it fit too snugly for her to pull it off easily. She considered experimenting with soap and cold water but knew it wouldn’t work.

She needed clothes in the mundane fashion and she needed to get out and walk. Cathy wiped the tears off her cheeks and pulled a couple of jewels from her hair as she looked at the wall of fitted wardrobes. The sound of a police siren going past the window reminded her that she was in Mundanus and it cheered her. Getting out of the Nether was half of the battle.

The food had been laid out before they arrived so she suspected the Iris machine would have selected clothes for her honeymoon, had them brought to the flat and unpacked at the same time. She opened the first door she came to and found dresses hanging with matching shoes beneath. She rummaged in drawers and found underwear but no jeans or sloppy tops of the kind she would prefer. The Irises didn’t want her to wear trousers. They probably thought it was indecent.

“Fucking Irises,” she muttered as she pulled on knickers made to delight a husband rather than be comfortable and a lacy bra that would itch like crazy. “Fucking Fae bastards,” she added as she laddered a new pair of stockings and then abandoned them.

She pulled out the most comfortable-looking dress, even though it was one she would never pick out for herself, and put it on. It was too neat, too floral and far too feminine for her taste. When she looked in the mirror she felt sick at the sight of herself as the perfect little wife in the perfect little dress. “Fuck all of you,” she said to the reflection, and went hunting for a clock.

She missed her wristwatch. In the Nether men had pocket-watches and the ladies relied on the clocks around the house and the punctuality of the staff to run their day. Thankfully the electric oven in the mundane kitchen had one. It was almost half past six in the evening, the darkness outside in keeping with the Novembers she remembered from her time at university. So many people moaned when the winter nights lengthened but she loved them as much as the days. Simply the change from light to dark and back again filled her with a gentle delight. Living in the constant twilight of the Nether was unnatural in the extreme. She had to get out and see the electric lights of the city and feel the fresh air on her face again. But she needed a plan too.

The table was still covered with food and, now that William had left, her appetite was returning. She unfolded a napkin and put in a few dainty sandwiches and tartlets that would travel better than the rest of the fare. Then she considered where to go first as she ate a boiled egg and the potato salad.

She needed access to the internet and her bank account. That would give her control over her mundane affairs again and make sure everything was ticking over until she could return. To do that she needed to call her friend Tanya and get her tech sent, as she’d arranged before Tom had taken her back to Aquae Sulis, so she needed a phone. She wanted her old phone back as that was the number she’d given Sam, and the one Josh knew.

Then she needed to go to the Emporium of Things in Between and Besides and see if the Shopkeeper could help. What exactly she wanted help with wasn’t fully formed in her mind yet, but she planned to think about that as she walked. Tech first, magic second; he would be there until late anyway.

Before she’d left Manchester she’d memorised Tanya’s number so all she needed was a public payphone. And cash.

“Shit.”

She didn’t have her bank cards – they were with the package left in her friend’s care. The Shopkeeper didn’t allow coins in his shop and he didn’t keep paper money on the premises either.

Cathy thought about the way everything had been arranged in the flat. If the Iris servants had unpacked everything needed for a honeymoon in Mundanus, surely they would have left money somewhere?

She went back into the bedroom and looked in one of the bedside drawers. It contained a small bottle of scent and a neat pile of lace-edged handkerchiefs. So that was supposed to be her side of the bed. She dashed to the matching set of drawers on the other side and found a spare set of keys – presumably to the flat – an
A to Z
of London and a wallet. Jackpot.

There was a thick wad of notes inside; after a cursory flip through them she estimated there was over three thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes. She plucked two notes from the middle and dropped the wallet back in the drawer, then grabbed the keys and the
A to Z
.

A smart black winter coat was hanging on a stand near the door and fitted perfectly. It was belted, with too few pockets and no hood, but it did have an inside pocket in which she could secrete the notes and keys. One of the outer pockets was just big enough to hold the napkin of food. She didn’t care about how the bulge looked.

She tested the keys first and once she’d identified the front-door key she left. In the lift down to the ground floor she wondered if she should have left a letter. If William returned to find his new possession gone, would a brief note saying “Gone out. P.S. You can shove this marriage up Lord Iris’s arse!” make it better? Did the Fae even have–

“Focus,” she said to herself, aware that her hands were shaking. It was the first time she’d been free to go where she pleased for weeks. Since Tom had dragged her back to Aquae Sulis she’d either been locked in her room, chaperoned or doing something secret, dodgy and stressful for the Sorcerer.

Cathy left the building and for a moment all she could do was stand on the pavement and take in the streetlights and cars, the crowds of people and the breeze on her face. She was filled with euphoria and renewed optimism. It took a minute to work out exactly where she was and that Covent Garden was just a short walk away. There would be shops there, and phones, once she had change.

Just walking down the street alone was exhilarating. People passed without giving her a glance and she revelled in true anonymity. No one was watching for her next mistake, no one cared about what she was wearing or how disappointing her face was. They were all just getting on with their own business. This was the world she wanted to live in.

A newsagent’s caught her eye and a sudden craving for chocolate hit her. She went inside and glanced around for the sweets section, only to see Josh’s face on several magazine covers.

Everything else greyed out as she headed for the nearest one and pulled it off the shelf. “What is Josh’s secret?” was in huge letters underneath a picture of him in big sunglasses, caught mid-stride. “Serial monogamist leaves broken hearts in his wake, more on page 4,” said the strap line underneath. Cathy flipped to the page to see a variety of shots featuring Josh and the redhead who’d knocked him down in Manchester and other women, all skinny and fashionably beautiful. She couldn’t take in the text, her attention made scattershot by the shock of seeing him dressed so differently, his hair messy in a horribly trendy way instead of the hopeless geeky mess she remembered.

She stuffed the magazine behind another and picked up a second one, which gleefully described the latest cat-fight caused by two glamour models apparently quarrelling over whom he liked the most. A third speculated about a broken engagement between him and the redhead and a fourth suggested he was about to marry a brunette who looked like she’d eaten nothing but celery for the last decade. They were really all describing the same phenomenon in varying levels of sensationalist language: Josh was having no trouble whatsoever finding rich and beautiful women who wanted to be his girlfriend. And it was all her fault.

“Are you gonna buy one of those or just crease ’em all?” the bloke behind the counter asked.

She looked at him, still unable to form a coherent thought.

“I wanted chocolate,” she finally said.

“Looks like you need more than that, love. D’you need to sit down?” She nodded. He pointed at the door. “There’s a café across the road.”

She put the magazine back on the shelf and grabbed a couple of bars of chocolate to take to the till. When she handed over a fifty, he didn’t take it. “You not got anything smaller?”

“No, sorry, I need change to make a phone call.”

“There’s a mobile phone shop next door, get a pay-as-you-go, save us all some trouble.”

She abandoned the chocolate, desperate to get away from the reminders of her botched wish, and did as he suggested. Twenty minutes later she had a phone and had abandoned the plan to call her friend until she knew her new address in London.

The café was her next stop and in minutes she was sitting down with a steaming hot chocolate in front of her. She was still shaken by Josh’s fame and wondered if he was really as happy as the magazines suggested. The magazine coverage didn’t fit with the Josh she knew. Did all those beautiful women love sci-fi films and books like he did? Had he opened up to them in the way he’d opened up to her? And what about his course? The pictures gave the impression of him being a London playboy – had he abandoned Manchester altogether?