Arcadia (44 page)

“It feels like being sick,” Amber says. The old woman tuts and clucks. Amber nudges her out of the way impatiently. “You understand. Don't you?”

“Yeah.” Rory can't guess what might happen if he disagreed with anything she said. Maybe she'd attack him. Or scream again, that would be the worst. “Know what you mean.”

Amber's fixed her attention on him now as if he alone in the whole world can save her. “She'll follow you,” she says. He feels a pulse of sudden shame in his heart. “Across the water. She thinks you belong to her and she doesn't want you to get away. She's afraid of what went with you. She hasn't been afraid for ages. She gave it up with her
hymen
.” On the last word her voice changes, abruptly, impossibly: it becomes someone else's, a deep, resonant, man's voice. The whole room seems to waver. A dry scented wind rustles through phantom trees. The old couple whimper and Sal flinches in shock, as if something huge has swooped overhead. Amber clutches the old woman. “What am I talking about, Auntie?” Her own voice has returned. “What's that word?”

“It's nothing,” the woman says. “You're having one of your funny turns, that's all.” She hisses over her shoulder at the man, “Get them away!”

“All right now,” the man says, getting to his feet and plucking Sal's coat. “That's enough.”

Sal stares at Rory. “Who's following you?”

“Never mind that,” the man says. “Out, you two.”

“Everyone out,” the woman says.

“He's coming,” Amber says. She grabs the woman's arm so hard it makes her gasp in pain. “He's coming.”

“No one's coming, lovely. Hush.”

“Out!” says the man, but he's having no effect on Sal at all. Amber's fastened herself to the old woman like a frightened toddler, but she's looking only at Rory.

“Don't go,” she says.

“Auntie won't go, lovely. Auntie won't leave you.”

Sal brushes the man's hand away. “She wants us here,” she says.

“Don't you tell me what—”

Amber cuts him off with a shriek. “Don't go! You have to listen!”

Sal snaps at the man. “Get your hands off me.” She elbows him away and crouches in front of Amber, propping herself up with the staff. “We're listening, Amber,” she says.

“Ah!” Amber's increasingly wild look switches from Rory to the staff. She jerks herself back against the column. Her fingers scratch against the floor. “Unlife! Unlife!” She kicks the old woman away with a ferocious spasm. “They should have left it drowned! He went down in the storm but he wouldn't stay down. They're coming. They're all coming!” She flings herself forward on her knees and grabs Rory around the waist. “He's nearly here! Don't leave me!”

The stench of invisible smoke is suddenly overpowering. The woman's on the floor, groaning, while the man bends over her. Sal drops the staff. It falls with a hollow thump. Rory tries to squirm out of the girl's grip but he can't, he's trapped. The thump echoes, and goes on echoing, as if the room's ten times bigger and carved of stone, until it becomes the dying beat of some massive drum.

A golden light touches the windows.

“He's coming,” Amber whispers, in terrified surrender.

The light's like sunrise. Around the ceiling the thin rectangles of filthy spotted glass flood with molten warmth. It leaks into the air. Gold wreaths everything.

“What the fuck,” Sal whispers.

“He's—” Amber begins. Then her arms are flung apart and her head jerks back. Rory shies away, completely terrified, and falls to the floor. All of them are crouching now as though the light's forcing them down, all except Amber, who kneels straighter, stretching her fingers to the ceiling.

“—here,” she says, and now the man's voice has taken over her mouth again. It's far too big for her, for the room. It's huge and slow as a planet. “Here. I walk this place. I am I am I am invoked and I answer. By my light all things are seen as they are. Boy.” Rory's cowering, bent over, head pressed to the floor, hands jammed over his ears. He's probably screaming but there's no way anyone could tell, not with that voice invading every atom of the room. “Answer me. Would you see God?” Someone's got hold of him. It's Sal. She's crawled to his side and is tugging him towards the door. “Answer me,” the voice thunders. Amber looks like she's choking on it. Its every syllable makes her shake. “Would. You. See. God.” Sal's got to her feet. She's very strong; she yanks Rory upright too and hurls him towards the door. “Answer me,” the voice peals behind them as they bolt down the corridor. The two of them barrel out into miserable twilight, the bulk of the great dish looming, its face turned up to the infinity above. They run for the gate. Sal wrenches it open and they collapse onto the weed-cracked path beyond, clutching each other, recovering breath.

“OK,” Sal says. A couple of the other Riders have spotted them and are running over. Sal gives Rory a weak smile. “That went well.”

H
e can't sleep.

They don't even have the foam mats they used at Dolphin House. The floor tiles feel damp and sticky. Every corner's patched with mold. He can smell it in the dark, even over the reek of people sleeping in their clothes. The little rooms only fit one or two people but the doors must be open all along the corridor because the sweaty stench of people is stifling, and he can hear snoring. Earlier on there was a bit of muffled talking.
Earlier,
he thinks, but even then it was late, everyone except him and the muttering people was asleep. He feels like he's been awake for days. He gave up on the floor a while ago and has come to the room with the swivelly chair. It swivels without squeaking so there's no chance of waking Haze, who's on the floor somewhere. He reaches out for the wall of machinery with his foot and pushes himself around. Spinning in the dark.

The wind's noisy too. It surges and sighs. It's like trying to sleep with someone standing next to your head. He's not going to manage to drop off, he can tell.

They have to leave as soon as it's light. The old couple are furious and Sal doesn't dare make them any angrier. She and the others talked for a while about whether they should force the man to hand over the keys, but in the end they decided they have to go on being polite. Sal wouldn't say very much about what happened inside Amber's room, but Rory could tell she wasn't keen on going back in there either. The only thing is that the staff's still in there. Sal says she'll make them bring it out tomorrow or she'll refuse to leave.

Tomorrow. It feels unlikely.

Even though it's pitch black his eyes are open. This is because the voice starts up every time he tries to close them. Not actually speaking again, it's just that he starts remembering it, and when he does it's like sticking his head inside a bell. It doesn't even sound like words. It's just exploding bombs of sound.
Would. You. See. God
. Round and round he spins. He's not sure he's on the earth anymore. When he tries to think of Home, his mother, the stub of candle beside his bed, the handles of buckets of icy water biting into his palms, it feels like he's floated out of his own body, out of Rory, and he's swimming around in interstellar nothing.

There's a distant noise, more solid than the wind. A dog somewhere.

His attention drifts that way. It's weird in the dark, it's like he's porous. The barking is pinpricks in the texture of the night. They disappear. He folds back into the dark room. Spin, spin.

More dogs. They probably run wild, he thinks. There were dogs on Home, in The Old Days, and even a few afterwards, until they had to eat them. Missus Grouse and Missus Anderson and Laurel and Pink (and Viola, in sympathy) said they'd rather starve than eat the dogs, though they all did in the end. Starvation was worse than they thought it was going to be.

Rory wonders about that dog behind the door at the crossroads. Ralph. Stupid name for a dog. Even Lino and Silvia and Per don't feel real anymore. They've spun away like Home. Superheroes, gods.
That stuff's for kids,
Ol says, though he'll ask to read the comics anyway if he's bored and Laurel's not around.

The barking's a bit louder. There must be a few of them out there.

There's a shuffle in one of the other rooms. Someone else must be awake.

More barking.

“Shit,” a voice says. Lots of rustling. Louder: “Shit.”

Rory stops spinning.

“Dogs!” someone shouts.

Haze snorts herself awake. Judging by the sound of it she's just sat up. She's very still for a moment, listening.

“Oh Christ,” she says. She gets up, banging something. Everyone's waking up now.

“Dogs!” the first voice shouts. “Wake up!”

“Fuck,” Haze says. She drops something. “Who was watching?” she shouts. Doors start banging. “Where are my fucking boots?”

“Get the horses!” shouts the first voice. A glimmer of light flickers in. Someone's opened the front door, and it must be so late it's early, a little of tomorrow's light has appeared outside. Silhouettes bump into each other in the corridor. Outside someone—a man—yells “Wake up! Wake up!”

The barking's quite loud now. There're a lot of them. A big group of dogs, which, Rory thinks, would be a pack.

He starts feeling around on the floor for his coat and shoes. Haze has left the room. There's an abrupt and overwhelming atmosphere of panic. Lots of people are shouting outside now. He can't find his shoes; it's still black as the bottom of the sea in his tiny room. His hands keep whacking against the spider legs of the chair. “Everyone!” That sounds like Sal shouting. “Horses! Now!” Everyone else must be outside. He tries to think. Should he go outside in his socks?

No one's remembered him. No one's here to help him get his shoes on. He tries to think and discovers a wall of terror in his head. His hands brush accidentally against a shoe. He starts putting it on, though it's hard when you can't see and your hands are shaking. Now there's the sound of horses too, whinnying and stamping. Hoofbeats batter a rapid approach and fade: someone riding away. They're leaving. They're leaving already. Rory stands up, realizes he's only got one shoe on. He lopes into the corridor.

A silhouette appears at the front door. “Rory?”

“I'm here,” he squeals, so tight with relief he can barely speak.

“Rory!” It's Ellie. “Out here, quick.”

“I can't find my other shoe.”

“Come on.” She turns her head and stares at something outside. “Come on!”

The barking's continuous now, a wave of savagery. It's really close. In the dim blue light behind Ellie someone rides past at a gallop. “Stand and fight!” someone shouts, a man. “Stay together!” Rory limps to the door. Ellie grabs his wrist. She's wearing a big loose white T-shirt which makes her look like a ghost. She yanks him outside.

There's torchlight across the heather barrens, and black shapes advancing. He hears howls which aren't dogs. A horse clatters close. The big tattooed man called Wolf is standing outside one of the other buildings, waving a club. He tries to grab a horse as it rides by. “Fight them!” he snarls, but the rider swerves to avoid him. Ellie's running. He tries to run too but he can't do it in one shoe, he keeps tripping. He stumbles and drags her down. Another horse thuds up out of the dark.

“Got the kid?” It's Soph.

“Can you take him?” Ellie says, getting to her feet.

“What about you?”

“Go.” The wave of horrible noise has changed. It's breaking into small pieces and they're very close, coming very fast. The dogs are off the leash. “Now! Grab him!”

An arm comes down and heaves Rory up. He thumps against the flank of Soph's horse. It skitters and rears but she hangs on. Rory scrabbles for anything to cling on to and gets a fistful of mane. The horse whines and twists, and then suddenly the ground's alive with snapping black bodies. “Ellie!” Soph yells. The horse bucks and kicks, flipping Rory into the air. He comes down across the saddle, the pommel smashing into his ribs. “Hang on!” Soph shouts, and everything starts bouncing wildly. They're riding. Trying to pull his head straight, Rory sees Wolf go down, a black shape knocking into the man's chest and laying him out flat. A dog yelps right under him; he hears the crack of a hoof against its body. Soph's clinging on to him and swearing nonstop under her breath,
fuckingbastardsfuckingbastards
. They're riding hard out onto the dark heath. He's being pummeled. He's clinging on, sick with terror and crazy motion. There's a terrible lurch. Soph's litany stops in a single sharp gasp, the world inverts itself, and he's flung down into bristles and mud. The horse screams, staggers, falls beside him, rolling. Soph screams too. The force of his fall has stunned and winded him and he can't move or breathe. “Fuck!” Soph shouts, and makes an agonized yelping noise. The turmoil of barking is behind them, mixed with men's shouts. The sky's an indigo blanket. “Rory?” He sucks in a breath. It hurts all over. “Rory! Can you get up?” Can he? He's got to try. He drags his arms and legs into motion. The horse tries to heave itself up on its forelegs but collapses, making a sound like it's being strangled. “Run!” Soph tells him. “Get the fuck away!” He can see her sitting nearby. Her mailed tunic is glimmering softly in the shadow of dawn. “Listen to me,” she says. Her voice is crackly. “Stand up straight. Can you do that? Good on you.” Her face is glimmering softly too: it must be wet. “Now go. Fast as you can. Always downhill, understand me? Get to the sea. That's all you have to do.” She twists to look over her shoulder. Leaping torchlight scars the horizon above. “Off you go. They'll send the dogs soon.” He stares stupidly. “Now, Rory. Now.”