Mamelon 2 - Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“This is really not a good time,” Beth murmured self-consciously, despite the welcome distraction of Mulac’s growing passion.

            “True,” the Nu-gen agreed, “But we dare not go forward and there is no going back so…” He kissed her again.

“We cannot stay here, “she insisted in-between kissing him back with equal passion; this,  despite a growing awareness of the screams ahead having quietened to an eerie silence that chilled her, made her shudder all the more glad of his arms around her. For no reason, she glanced upwards and saw a flicker of light on the rock shelf immediately above them that seemed to grow larger the longer she observed it. Moreover it seemed to be performing a little dance as if issuing an invitation of sorts.

“Mark it well, Bethan motherworlder and fear it not, but follow.” Tol’s voice came into her head out of nowhere; she sensed a warning as well a benign edge. This was not a suggestion, it was a command.

“Are you mad?” was Mulac’s immediate reaction when Beth relayed Tol’s words to him. “Does this Tol truly believe we can crawl past Krills without their catching either sight or sound…or smell of us,” he added with a wry grimace.

“I’d trust Tol with my life,” Beth assured him.

“And what of mine? Do you expect me to trust him with mine?” Mulac demanded. They were barely whispering, but the harshness of his tone, in sharp contrast to the affection it had conveyed only moments before, caused her to push him angrily away. “I trust Tol and you said you trusted me,” she muttered between clenched teeth.

“You are even more beautiful when you are angry,” Mulac told her with a grin that caused her heart to slip several beats.

“Well, I am going to follow the damn light and you can do as you damn well please,” Beth retorted.

“Spoken like a true Motherworlder!” Mulac chuckled, but Beth was in no mood o be teased.

“I am a Motherworlder, yes”,  she reminded him, eyes flashing, “and don’t you ever forget it!” His hurt expression made her regret the words in an instant, but a native stubbornness persisted.  She turned her back on him and started to climb. Suddenly, the mountain went into one of its moods and began to rage and shake. Falling rocks tumbling and rumbling past her, Beth clung to a protruding root of some kind for dear life and closed her eyes. Almost at once, the mountain quietened again.  She looked up and was relieved to see the same weird light dancing on the shelf above as if nothing had happened. She glanced down to reassure Mulac.

The shelf below remained much the same except for a yawning chasm at the spot where she and Mulac had exchanged words of love and anger only moment before.

Of Mulac, though, there was no sign.

Beth, distraught, burst into tears.

“There is no time for tears, you must leave here now,” Tol’s voice whispered urgently in one ear while, in the other, she seemed to hear Mulac calling to her. She could not be sure, of course, was even inclined to put it down to wishful thinking, but hope was hope and she took it at face value. “Mulac…” she started to say,

“Mulac is a match for any mountain,” Tol assured her wryly, in a manner that reminded Beth of her father.  Not for the first time, she missed his solid, reassuring presence in her life. It cannot have been easy for him, she reflected. Both had seen them more than their fair share of tough as well as happier times. She had no memory of her mother who had died giving birth to her one summer solstice….

“This is no time to daydream, Bethan of Mamelon!” Tol gruffly but not unkindly interrupted her impromptu reminiscing and brought her back to the present with a nasty jolt.

Somehow, Beth found the strength to reach the shelf above where she lay for a time, physically and emotionally drained. The flicker of light kept dancing in front of her eyes; now backing away, now returning, now a gentle glow, now a harsh glare as if increasingly impatient for her to follow. Wearily, Beth began to crawl after it, on her belly since the mountains rocky entrails were such here that proceeding even on hands and knees was not an option. She did not look down as she passed way above where the jubilant krills were celebrating a rare victory over an old enemy. If it occurred to her at all that they had only to look up and might well spot her, she was past caring. Yes, she trusted Tol with her life, but did she trust him with the Nu-gen’s?

Tol, for his part, had gone as ominously quiet as the mountain.

…………………………………….

Galia’s moods fluctuated moment by passing moment; between despair at finding her way back to Earth blocked and euphoria at the possibility of finding her firstborn of Mamelon whom she had long thought dead; now fear for her children, now a rare satisfaction she had not anticipated at returning to a place her heart had never left despite its being in denial for more lifetimes that she cared to recall; now a calling out for revenge, now a need for closure, redemption even. Running helter-skelter through this maze of passions, she was loath to identify an increasingly sickening realisation that she had no idea what to do next or even which way to turn.

              Contemplating the mouths of several tunnels, she found herself calling upon Ri for help and guidance, something she had not done since a childhood she had put out of her mind for what in Earth history would be called centuries. Maternal instinct told her to follow Michal. That same instinct warned her against it. He must find his own way. I cannot, dare not interfere until the balance of time is right. So what, how, where…

            “Daughter, daughter, what have you done?”  Galia swung round to find her mother close by, the expression on the young-old face giving little away but veering closer to a smile than a frown.

            “I can’t get back,” said Galia flatly.

“Even as a child you had a talent for expressing the obvious,” the Magela murmured, permitting herself a rare, fleeting glimpse of a long-ago time when she and Astor has been almost happy. In an instant, though, she had collected herself. “You used to enjoy a hug in those days, I seem to recall.” She opened her arms wide. “It is I, daughter, no dream-self, but perhaps you are too old now…?”

Wordlessly, Galia flung herself into her mother’s arms; arms that closed protectively around her; arms that provided all the reassurance, strength, determination, hope, and resolve for which she craved, and more.

Etta was the first to open her eyes. Gently, she pushed Galia away. Time is on no one’s side, daughter, but we must make the most of what we have and what we know.

“And what do we know?”

“Yes, well, nothing and everything, my dear. Knowing nothing excludes nothing which, in turn, leaves us open to everything,” she added characteristically obscure and matter-of-fact at the same time.  “Now, come, for there is much to be done,” adding under her breath, “Not least, a world to save…if we can.” She did not look back, but chose to enter one of three tunnels without the slightest hesitation.

Galia followed, as much in awe of her mother now as she had been as a child, and no less trusting. At the same time, it came as something of a revelation to understand why she no longer felt intimidated by Etta.  She, Galia, was a mother, too, and with a feeling for magic that, if not yet fully realised, nevertheless made mother and daughter formidable partners in whatever this unique combination of past, present and future might hold.  Bursting with a new found self-confidence, Galia quickened her step. albeit with difficulty until the tunnel opened up and they no longer had to stoop. Alert to every danger, physical and otherwise, they continued in companionable silence, Etta marginally ahead and seemingly leading the way.

Etta saw no reason to alert her daughter to the presence of a kikiri guide. Galia, like most of Mamelon, was distrustful of kikiri, Etta among them. This kikiri, though, was unlike any she had ever encountered; for a start, it projected itself so faintly that it was all even her sharp eyes could do to keep track of it. She suspected this was but one of several images. Clearly, it was dividing itself. To assist others, she wondered? Whatever, the Magela sensed no malevolence here, only in the spell that kept the poor thing from assuming its natural form. Try as she might, though, she was unable to penetrate the layers of dark magic attached to it. “Ragund,” she hissed under her breath so Galia would not hear. The kikiri, however, seemed to tense briefly, as if acknowledging a threat worse than death.

As they approached yet another bend in the ever winding stream of passageways, Etta froze. Galia, caught unawares, stumbled into her. Etta cocked an ear while signing to her daughter to stay silent and perfectly still. Someone or something was just ahead, so close by that she could hear that someone - or something – breathing…

……………………………………

As the ledge on which he had been poised to follow Bethan to the shelf above began to crumble and sent him plummeting, Mulac opened his mouth to call out to her. He was, however, unable to make a sound. It was as if an invisible hand was held over his mouth forcing him to keep silent.

“Walls have ears,” said a voice in his head. But fear not for yourself or for Bethan,” the voice continues reassuringly. .

“Tol…?”  Mulac adopted mind-speak without even thinking about it although he had never attempted it before. His suspicions were quickly confirmed.

“Yes. But ask no questions, Nu-gen. The time for questions and answers will come soon enough.”

Mulac, unharmed. went sprawling on a bed of red sand. Instantly, he felt it move.

“Fear not the Kurzl, it means you no ill. On the contrary, it will take you where you need to be. Rest now, for you will need all your strength for the battles with dark forces that lie ahead.”

“Battles…?” Mulac was more curious than alarmed. But there was no answer. Mulac sensed the other’s absence just as he had sensed his presence. Infinitely weary of trying to make sense of the impossible, he made no attempt to resist falling fast asleep on the sea monster’s back.

……………………………………

Beth continued to follow the light ahead that would occasionally do a little dance as if willing her to relax. “As if…” Beth remonstrated with it, worried sick about Mulac and wondering if she would ever see him again.  Moreover, she hated being alone. Where was the damn light taking her, and why? What did it mean that she was a Keeper, and what had her father to do with any of this. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced she had glimpsed his dear face even as she and Mulac thought they were falling to certain death. Furthermore, she was convinced her father had saved them. But how, why...and, oh, but I must stop thinking Earth or Motherworld and think Mamelon.  I must. Yet, how can I when both keep coming together as if part of the same whole just as I, too,  am Berth and Bethan…?

She paused and sat down on a small but significant boulder that offered a straight choice of clambering over or squeezing past. The dancing light had disappeared around a bend just ahead. Beth sighed, close to tears. I don’t deserve this, I really don’t! She stamped her foot on the rock floor and laughed for recalling how she had done much the same once as a child when confused, anxious or wanting her own way. Her father would invariably sit out her little tantrum and proceed as he saw fit, rarely giving in to her but always in such a way as she would feel foolish while, at the same time, less confused, anxious or wanting her own way. She had trusted her father implicitly just as she trusted Tol. As for the dancing light, it was less a matter of trusting it than its offering as good a course of action as any in the absence of an alternative.

Letting rip with a long, deep sigh of frustration, self-pity, and apprehension all rolled into one, Beth-Bethan let herself indulge in a good old-fashioned sulk. Not for long, though, did she stare at the uncompromisingly stony floor of Ri’s mountain and contemplate her fate.  She could almost hear her father whispering in one ear. Get a grip, girl. You’ll get nowhere fast sitting on your backside and feeling sorry for yourself. The stinging rebuke - imagined or otherwise - was all the encouragement she needed. In an instant, she scrambled to her feet, choosing to climb over the boulder rather than attempt squeezing past and risk being pinioned against a wall of rock with no hope of rescue.  Worse, was the thought of Mulac suffering a similar fate. I must find him. He is alive. I know it, I feel it. He will be relying on me. Dear Ri, help me. There is no one else…

At the bend, she froze. A sixth sense told her that there was something or someone other than any dancing light on the other side. Swallowing hard and blaming both a hostile environment along with too vivid an imagination for fostering a growing terror, she rounded the bend in a spirit of defiance that had the desired effect of killing it stone dead. Whatever it is, if anything, I’m a match for it, she was in the process of convincing herself when she came face to face with Etta.

……………………………………………

 Mick-Michal ran headlong into pitch blackness with no clear idea of where he was going, only that he needed to get as far away from the druids as possible. Incredibly, he neither fell nor even stumbled once.  Down tunnel after tunnel, he ran; now at full height, now having to crouch low; now passing through a cavernous mouth of rock, now in a mossy hall emanating a grandeur worthy of a child’s fairy tale.

Eventually, he stumbled, fell headlong into a bed of red mud and lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes, he was at once relieved to discover that he was alive and not a little disconcerted to find himself looking into the searching gaze of the Nu-gen, Mulac. Only briefly, though, was the Motherworlder in him reminded of Beth’s attraction to the surly Mamelon tribesman. Gratefully, he accepted a flask if vinre. Although the heady wine made his head swim, once it cleared, intelligent thought became less of a hardship than it had been for some time.

“Where am I?”

*On the back of a sea monster heading for Ri only knows where,” Mulac told him. The surly expression lit up with a wry grin of which Michal had no recollection whatsoever.

“Beth…?”

Mulac’s expression clouded over only a fraction before the grin became what his companion read as a reassuring smile. “She is safe.”

“So where is she?”

Mulac shrugged. “I do not know. I only know that she is safe, and will be ready to play her part when the time is right…as will you and I,” he added cryptically.

“But where is she,” Mick insisted, “and if you don’t bloody know, how can you be so damn sure she’s safe? As for playing a part, what does that mean exactly?  A part in what, how, when…?”

“I have no answers to your questions so you might as well rest more and try to sleep. I sense we will need all our strength in events to come. Perhaps they will answer our questions. Oh, yes, friend Michal, I have much the same questions, and a need for answers greater even than yours I am thinking.  For now, though, we can but wait and see where the Kurzl take us, and then do whatever it takes to survive. Fear not for Bethan…” He proceeded to try and explain about Tol and mind-talk to his sceptical companion.

It constantly came as a surprise to Mick just how much of his Michal persona he had taken on. Even so, he remained adamant it would not take him over completely. Even so, the Nu-gen’s explanation, for all it was far-fetched and unbelievable, somehow rang true. Either that or he was too fatigued to argue. Whatever, he chose to take Mulac at his word and grab some sleep. Suddenly, something the Nu-gen had said hit home. “Did you say we are on the back of a sea monster?”

“I did,” Mulac responded with a rare laugh, “but fear not, and ask no more questions I cannot answer. I am thinking we should both get some sleep. I wondered why my eyes would not close. Now I know. They were watching out for you to come back into my life. Be sure, our destinies are joined, whether we like it or not. I think we will never be true friends, but we can at least not be enemies, agreed?

“”Agreed,” said Michal and shook the outstretched hand unhesitatingly.

As their hands made contact, both men experienced a sensation similar to what Mick could only describe as an electric shock from which he could not instantly withdraw but had to endure until it ceased as suddenly as it had flared. He said nothing. How could he begin to explain electricity to the Nu-gen. He tried to convince himself it was the result of recent tensions causing his body to be extra sensitive. His inner self knew better.  He wondered if Mulac had felt anything like the same experience of shock, but thought better of asking as it could only complicate matters further. As if there aren’t enough bloody complications, half questions and half answers flying around like birds of bloody prey! What am I doing here? I hate everything about this place. What is this hell-hole of a Mamelon to me anyway? Where is Beth? Where is Pete? He started guiltily upon realising that he had scarcely given his brother a second thought for some time. Oh, damn it all, I need to get some sleep. He closed his eyes as was asleep before he could even start to disentangle his Mick and Michal personas one from the other.

Mulac continued to observe his sleeping companion for some time.  He understood the shaking of hands to be a Motherworld ritual acknowledging a bonding of sorts. Nothing, had prepared him for what he had felt at the point of contact, flesh on flesh, or how the experience left him feeling now. We are bonded, this Motherworlder and I, as if we were flesh of the same flesh, brothers in mind, body and spirit. But how can this be? It is unheard of for Nu-gen to bond so even within the tribe. Bethan called Beth, too, affects me deeply. What is it I do not know and need to know? What can it be that Etta has never seen fit to tell me, and why? Who am I…?

He fell into an uneasy sleep, the last question, above all, continuing to attack every nuance of his being.

Mamelon 2 - Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE 

As soon as it became clear the Krills would overwhelm them without much difficulty, Ricci stepped back into the shadows and hastily muttered a changing spell that actually worked for once, instantly transforming him into a snake.  He hurriedly slithered away, persuaded this was the best course of action since it would leave him free to help Bethan and Mulac as and when the opportunity arose. Besides, he needed time to think. They had just passed no small distance through solid rock, no mean feat even where magic was involved. Moreover, he doubted whether Astor’s powers, great as they were, could be responsible. There is magic abroad of which I have never known the like, Ricci pondered, refusing to be distracted by the war-like cries behind him. But how can this be, and if not Astor’s whose? Not Ragund’s that’s for certain. 

Ricci was in no doubt that if the Dark Mage had contrived to lead them inside the rock wall, he would have left them there to suffocate. A shiver passed through his snake body as he manoeuvred it to a safe place from which he could keep an eye on what was happening to his companions.

Beth saw no point in putting up a fight and surrendered angrily to the first two Krills that confronted her.  Mulac, though, pulled a dagger from beneath his tunic and fought like a madman. Time and again, the handsome blade found its mark, penetrating thin layers of Krill flesh exposed around the creatures’ evil-looking scales. Inevitably, he was finally brought down by a hefty blow from a cudgel-like object to side of the head that sent him reeling and tumbling off the ledge into space. 

The Krill that felled Mulac had crept up on him from behind.  Beth could only watch, helplessly. She could hardly shout a warning with a knife at her throat. Besides, there was far too much noise for it to have found its mark. Taller and more powerfully built than the rest, Beth recognized him at once as the leader, Radik. It was Radik, too, who grabbed Mulac by the legs and hauled him to safety before shouting orders to several others who proceeded to part carry, part drag the unconscious Nu-gen into their camp below, Here, there was space for everyone to move with ease safety.

In spite of her predicament, Beth breathed a sigh of relief. She had been terrified Radik would have them both killed without a second thought.

Her captors, having bound Beth’s hands behind her back, now tossed her against the cavern wall where Mulac, too, was unceremoniously dumped soon afterwards.  Most of the Krills then scuttled into the shadows but for Radik and one other who entered a makeshift tent.  A light inside the tent revealed the animated silhouettes of other figures. One of the tent flaps remained partly open and Beth could hear voices, but paid little attention as her chief concern was for Mulac whose breathing was loud and rasping. Bending over him and feeling for a pulse, she was relieved when the swarthy Nu-gen opened one eye and winked at her.

Mulac had barely managed to sit up when, despite their hands being tied, both moved in for a kiss to which each gladly responded.

“Where is Ricci?” Mulac whispered.

Beth shrugged. “I haven’t a clue,” she had to admit.  “One minute he was there and the next…gone. I did see a snake, though, so maybe he changed himself into one. If so, I do think he might have done the same for us. But that’s Ricci all over. He can be sweet, even charming, and always means well, but the truth is Ricci only really ever looks out for himself.” Even as she said it, though, she suspected she was doing poor Ricci an injustice.

“A wise move,” Mulac growled softly, “and I took him for a fool!” He chuckled. “He remains free while we…”

“…are prisoners,” Beth wailed, giving up all pretence of self-confidence. At the same time, she was furious with herself since the last thing she intended was for Mulac to think of her as some weak female. Even so, she wished he could give her a hug, having to settle instead for a wicked grin that instantly transformed his surly features. She began to relax, reassured by this completely different side to the Mulac whom she had once detested. Theirs, though, was a love they had to accept without question, for now at least. Both knew it was not a love Mamelon could condone. She was, after all, a Motherworlder, but that was not the only reason. Their destinies may well be intertwined, yet both knew instinctively that the time for asking questions would come soon enough.  When that time comes, I’ll lose him. 

Beth made a poor show of fighting back tears that Mulac misinterpreted as her being fearful for the situation in which they found themselves. Krills were not known for their kindness towards others. It was only natural after all. She has spirit, and I love her, but she is only a female. “Don’t cry. It saddens me deeply to see you cry. Besides, all is far from lost. Ricci is sure to find a way to help us.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Beth replied with feeling, but managed a wry smile that cheered them both. Do something Ricci, and don’t be too long about it. You know you can if you put your mind to it. “He’ll do his best, he always does,” she conceded. 

Mulac opened his mouth to say something when they were distracted by movement at the tent. The flaps were flung open wide and Radik strutted towards the prisoners, a smiling Arissa close behind and trailing after her a very unhappy elf.

“Pers, is it you?” Beth cried out warmly thinking to keep the elf on their side, but if Pers heard he made no sign.

“We meet again Bethan, Motherworlder,” Arissa sneered, “and in the company of a worthless Nu-gen too. Appropriate enough, wouldn’t you say, my Radik?”

“The female is very beautiful,” said Radik, much amused by Arissa’s predictably petulant response.

“For a Motherworlder, perhaps, but I am not impressed. What will you do with her, give her to the others?”

Beth paled, bit her lip, and glared malevolently from one to the other. 

“You know I cannot do that. She is precious, this one, “Mulac hissed, treating his captive to such a hideous parody of a smile that Beth was hard put not to retch.

It was then that Tol’s voice broke into Beth’s subconscious, “Take care, Bethan Motherworlder. Do not antagonise him. The ways of Radik are viler even than he looks when roused.”

Where are you Tol? She would dearly have liked to make mind contact with the gentle giant if only for comfort’s sake but sensed it would be unwise to attempt mind-speak at that moment in time.

“And what of the Nu-gen, he is expendable, yes?” Arissa came closer and spat in Mulac’s face. “What say you, Nu-gen?  What shall my Radik and I do with you? You have a fine body. Perhaps I shall ravish you before we decide. Would you like that?”

It was Mulac’s turn to spit. A pellet of well-aimed phlegm landed between Arissa’s eyes that blazed with such utter loathing that Beth expected a violent response. Instead, Arissa threw back her head and laughed, Radik too.  “We will roast it slowly, this one,” Arissa cried gaily and clapped her hands, “and the heart is mine.”

“It will make a welcome change from Foss,” Radik agreed.

“Don’t be so sure,” Mulac growled, “We are tough, Nu-gen, and hopefully, you will choke to death.”

“Better that than being roasted alive, Nu-gen scum,” Radik mocked, still laughing as he took Arissa’s hand and they returned to the tent.

“What did he mean about me being ‘precious’?” Beth asked the question aloud as much to herself as to Mulac.

“You are a Keeper.” To their surprise, it was Pers who answered. He had sidled up as close, as he dared but in shadow so they had not notice his presence. Now he edged even closer but remained no more than a vague silhouette in the gloom.

“All the more reason for you to set us free,” said Mulac.

“What is a Keeper?” Beth asked although, even as she did so, her heart sank as if it already knew the answer.

“Keepers have guarded the Tomb of the Creator from which flows the Spring of Life since the beginning of Time,” replied Pers solemnly.  All have been female and all called  Bethan. It is more than a tradition, it is a duty.  So it will be again once the tomb is recovered.”

“If it is recovered,” Mulac pointed out.

“Why else would Ri bring Motherworlders to Mamelon?” asked Pers with such naïve simplicity that Mulac found himself swallowing the passionate denial on his tongue, not least because he suspected the elf spoke the truth.

“A Keeper…” Beth murmured, and let her inner eye roam freely amongst a pageant of images as strange as it was familiar. Nor did she like what she saw. Duty…? Doom is more like it.

Again, Tol’s voice spoke at her inner ear. “Don’t be afraid, Bethan Motherworlder or ever believe all is lost. Trust me. The task ahead is a hard one, yes, but when it is complete you will discover that the burden you carry is one of choice not doom.”

Where are you?  Yet again, though, there was no reply.

“You must help us,” Mulac was saying to the disconsolate elf. “Are we not friends?”

“I cannot leave Arissa.”

“You mean you dare not,” Mulac growled impatiently, “Are you such a fool to let that evil female control every move you make?”

“She doesn’t,” Pers protested, “If she knew I was speaking with you now she would…”

“Skin you alive,” Mulac muttered, furious with the elf’s intransigence,

“Perhaps,” Pers admitted, close to tears, “but I can’t help the way I feel. She is everything to me. I love her, “

“Huh, love!” Mulac scoffed, “Can’t you see she is manipulating you?”

“If you can’t help us why are you talking to us at all?” Beth asked with such quiet earnestness that the elf began to cry.”

“I can’t bear to think of you…”

“Eaten alive?” Mulac suggested so lightly and matter-of-factly that Beth as well as Pers was taken a-back.

“They can’t!” she wailed.

“They can and they will,” Mulac assured her tonelessly. She wished he would show anger, fear even. This apparent acceptance of so terrible a fate was not only uncharacteristic, but scared her even more than the threat itself.  Suddenly, she realised just how much, until now, she had been relying on the Nu-gen to come up with an escape plan. Hadn’t Mulac apparently returned from the dead once?  Surely, he won’t let the likes of Radik and Arissa get the better of him, especially the latter.  She bristled with rage just for thinking about Heron’s dreadful sister. To think we once trusted the bitch… “Pers, please help us, please,” she pleaded.

The elf shook his head. “I can’t,” he wept. “I only came to see if you had any news of Irina.”

“The answer is no,” Mulac snapped, “but you can be sure that if she lives and ever gets to hear of your betrayal, she will disown you.  Gar will disown you. You will spend the rest of your miserable life exiled and alone except for that she-devil who has your wits in the palm of her pretty hand.”

“No, no!” The elf continued to sob quietly.

“If you won’t help us, at least have the decency to go away and leave us in peace to enjoy what little time we have together.” Mulac spread his large hands despairingly and breathed a sigh of relief when the elf slipped further into the shadows even more suddenly and stealthily than he had appeared.

“You were too hard on him,” Beth felt compelled to say. “He is in the grip of dark magic. You must see that, surely?”

“Of course,” Mulac agreed, “but I had to try.”

Both fell silent, unexpectedly and involuntarily drifting into a sense of semi-awareness that was neither wakefulness nor sleep.

It was Beth who first saw the ghostly figure floating towards them. While it had no easily distinguishable features, it had something resembling a finger to where its lips might have been. Beth dug her elbow into Mulac’s ribs.

The Nu-gen grunted, opened his eyes and gave a start. “Kikiri…!” he gasped.

“What…?” Beth whispered.  Mulac did his best to explain. Meanwhile, the apparition continued to hover and watch.

“What does it want?”

“It wants us to follow it,” Mulac said with a self-confidence he was far from feeling.

“With our hands tied behind our backs?”

“Hands, not feet,” he pointed out gruffly.

“Even so, are you sure?”

“No, but what have we to lose?”

“You have doubts,” It was not a question.

Mulac shrugged. “It is a thing of dark magic. But I sense there is something of what it was that remains and that, at least, means us no harm. “Besides, it is as I say. We have no choice but to trust it.

As the pair scrambled to their feet, Mulac involuntarily wincing from various cuts and bruises he had received earlier, they realized their hands were no longer tied. “But how…?” Beth exclaimed albeit softly.

“Who cares? There is magic here, yes, but it sides with us not against us so let us just  be grateful and leave it at that. Now, come.”

“We will be caught, and Ri knows what will happen then,” Beth muttered while massaging her wrists. As if by way of a reply, the eerie figure just ahead of them appeared to shake its head. “Oh, well, needs must as the Devil drives.” Seizing Mulac’s hand, she took the initiative and began walking slowly towards it even though this took them out of the deeper shadows and into full view of several small groups of Krills, As luck would have it, they were too busy cackling among themselves and drinking heavily to notice the odd trio, thereby paying them no attention. Even as they passed the tent, where a light of some kind was still burning and voices could be heard, no one raised the alarm. It’s like we’re invisible. Beth would have shared the thought with Mulac aloud had it not been necessary to keep silent. Besides, she knew he would be thinking the same.

It was the weirdest experience, but soon they were some distance from the Krill’s camp and following the apparition along yet another winding passage. “We’re going down,” she whispered to Mulac who was just a few steps ahead.

“So?” he replied abstractly, his mind turning over various possibilities. Can it be we have escaped one trap only to be led into another? Yet, what would be the point of that? Even so, he continued to nurse grave doubts about their strange guide.

“This isn’t the only mountain. How do we know the Tomb of the Creator is here? It may be in one of the others, “Beth pointed out. “At this rate, we’re as likely to find our own tomb as anyone else’s,” she added grimly.

“We are here are we not?” came Mulac’s cryptic reply.

“Do you think this kikiri may know the location of the tomb?”“

Mulac shrugged. “Who knows what a kikiri knows?  What is certain is that we know nothing. Have some faith, woman.”

The Nu-gen’s brusque tone was music to Beth’s ears. Mulac was back to his usual impossible self.  She was starting to feel almost positive when, without any warning, the ground gave way beneath their feet.

Both plunged screaming, limbs flailing helplessly, into a pitch black chasm.

As she fell, a ghostly figure appeared to Beth. She managed to cry out,” Dad!” whereupon the vision of her Motherworld father swooped and gathered her into his arms. Immediately, she closed her eyes and felt perfectly safe, no longer fearful of what she imagined must be certain death.  In a weird, dream-like state, she heard Mulac cry out also, only to be engulfed by infinite pain and disappointment that the name on his lips was not hers.

Mamelon 2 - Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Mick and the Foss, the latter happily answering to the name of Fred, were making good progress. Fred certainly knew his way through the maze of tunnels, moving quickly and surefootedly. “My home is not far now,” Fred called over his shoulder. ‘My people will make us very welcome and there will be much to eat and drink.”

“Even in a mountain?” Mick was sceptical.

“The mountains are full of surprises,” said Fred laughing, “so, too, are Foss.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Fred.” The dwarf flung him a beaming smile over his shoulder just as a queer noise seemed to bounce through the gloom at them.

Fred stopped in his tracks. “What can that be?”

“Whatever it is, you can be sure it doesn’t mean us any good,” Mick muttered grimly. “Wait here while I take a look.”

“But I know the way,” the dwarf protested. “F3 is not far now. “

“F3?”

“There are several Foss communities within the mountain. Mine is F3,” a visibly agitated Fred explained.

“Whatever is making that din can’t be far away either or the echoes wouldn’t be so loud,” Mick pointed out. “Besides, I am bigger than you. Wait here, and don’t move unless I call you.”  Before Fred could argue, he ran ahead, rounding several bends and only slowing down to a snail’s pace when he could see flashes of light ahead.  It was not long before he was mopping his brow with a handkerchief, and then holding it to his nose. It had become unnaturally hot and an awful smell was beginning to make him feel nauseous. 

Something was burning. A sixth sense warned Mick that whatever awaited him round the next bend would not be a pretty sight.  He was about to proceed with extreme caution, when Fred dashed past him with no thought for his own safety.  Although the terrible cry that crashed around his ears soon afterwards was like that of an injured animal, Mick knew instinctively what it was.

It was Fred.

Mick braced himself and ran forward. At the end of a long, sweeping bend, the tunnel opened up, levelled out, and widened.  Domestic items and clothing plainly suggested the area had hosted inhabitants or had so until recently. Flames from a huge bonfire licked at the cave walls and into a kind of chimney in the rock farther than the eye could see.

The smell was intolerable.

Close to the bonfire, Mick saw the little Foss. Fred was squatting in the firelight swaying to and fro, his head in both hands, making horrible wailing sounds.  The intensity of the firelight, simultaneously splendid and hideous, created a tableau that only added to the unbearable pathos of the little man’s anguish.

Mick did not need to be told what it was that was burning.

Having no experience of grief, Mick instinctively went and knelt beside Fred and gently put an arm around his shoulders. “We can’t stay here, Fred,” he shouted as gently as he could above the roar of the flames. “We have to go, now. There is nothing we can do. Perhaps there are survivors…”

“How can this be? What has happened here?”

“Krills…!” Mick exclaimed, more to himself than to his distressed companion.

Fred instantly broke free of the comforting arm, leapt to his feet and confronted the young Motherworlder with a wild-eyed expression that so transformed his appearance that Mick scarcely recognized him. “Krills…?  Why do you say that? Krills have not been seen in the mountains since The Keeper was taken and the tomb of the Creator lost.”

“Druids then…?” Mick suggested

“Ri curse them all, but it is not the way of Druids to…” He glanced towards the fire and broke down in floods of tears, but remained standing, his small body shaking from head to toe.  “Why do you say Krills?  Yes, Krills would do this, but they would not dare return. They would not dare!”” he shrieked hysterically, “The mountains would not let them…”

Mick, at a loss to know what to do or say, decided that straight talking was the best policy. Fred deserved an honest answer. “There were three of us. That is to say, four including Ricci and others joined us…” he began before realizing this was neither the time nor the place to confuse poor Fred with details. “Krills were following us,” he said slowly as memories of that previous visit to the dying planet returned. “We were with some druids, but…”

“Krills followed you here?” Fred screamed at the young Motherworlder. “You brought Krills here? What have you done? What have you done?”

“They were following us,” repeated Mick defensively, “We did not bring them here. They would have come anyway,” he added with a certainty that came from nowhere.

Fred flung out an arm towards the bonfire. “They were my people, my family, and my friends. Now they are all dead thanks to you. You have done this. You, you, you…!!! he continued to scream

“No, Fred, no, it’s not like that!” Mick, incensed by the accusation while struggling with anger, guilt, and more besides, recovered his composure long enough to try and reason with the Foss.

“I am not Fred. I am Foss,” the dwarf retorted furiously and ran out of the fire’s awful glow into the surrounding gloom.

“Fred, wait!” Mick called in vain and ran after the retreating figure, down a tunnel at the far end of what had once been F3 until he came to a fork.  There was no phosphorescent moss on the rock walks here, only pitch blackness. He cocked an ear, but could hear nothing. Once again, he was alone and lost. A flood of tears remained unchecked as he sank to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably, his all but crushed spirit left to run the gamut of loneliness, self-pity, and terror.

Suddenly, he sensed a presence, looked up and all but choked on a cry of relief and disbelief at the sight of a woman hovering a short distance along one of the tunnels. In spite of her weird, ghost-like appearance, he recognized instantly.   “Arissa!” he gasped.

The fragile figure ahead quivered frantically before settling down and approaching him so cautiously that it occurred to Mick that she was even more frightened of him than he was of her.

“You know me?” the voice was reedy and uncertain, not in the least as he remembered it. Arissa, he recalled with a wry smile, had been strong-willed and sure of herself to the extent of arrogance. He had neither liked nor trusted her. But this, this was a different Arissa altogether, and he felt curiously drawn to her in a spirit almost of comradeship as well as immense pity.

“Of course I know you, you’re…”

“No! Do not speak my name again. Never speak it again or we will both be kikiri, or worse,” she added cryptically. “I do not understand. How can you know me?  I have not been blessed with my natural form since it was stolen from me.”

It was only then that Mick became aware of a burning sensation in his jacket the pocket, and instinctively felt for and removed a tiny egg-shaped stone that was warm against his palm and exuding a yellow-green glow.  It had been a parting gift from La-Ri, the elf-queen, upon leaving the Forest of Gar for the Purple Mountains. He had almost forgotten it since a not dissimilar experience in Mal-y-Dros, Place of the Undead, on his first visit to Mamelon.

The figure that had once been Arissa barely stifled a gasp of astonishment. It is a malcryst, Dark Crystal, a druid thing. I did not know any existed but in old, old, stories. How came you by it?”

Mick saw no reason not to tell her.

“A druid thing in a place of elves, these are strange times indeed.”

“What happened to you?” Mick asked, inexplicably no longer afraid.

“I am kikiri. There are others such as I. We are neither alive nor dead. In the Motherworld you would call us zombies, I think. “Mick nodded, appalled.  Arissa went on, “Our identities have been stolen from us by those who wish to use them for dark purposes.  The one you saw before, she is dark magic personified and means only ill to any with whom she may appear to bond as friend or even lover. Oh, yes,” she agreed, correctly interpreting Mick’s expression alarm, “your friends are in mortal danger.”

“If they are still alive,” Mick felt obliged to say.

“They live, so far,” the kikiri assured him. Mick felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“You’ve seen them? You’ve seen my brother and Beth?”

“Not Bethan, but I sense she lives,” she assured him, referring to Beth by the same name as everyone else in Mamelon.  “Your brother is safe, for now. He is with Heron, who is my brother also, and the elf girl, Irina.  But we must go now. I will take you to the Foss. He will take much strength as well as comfort from your presence, and lead you through the mountains. But remember, you must never speak my name again here or you may well end up the same as I.  As it is, we can only pray to Ri that no one heard. And tell no one of the malcryst. You have a saying in the Motherworld that walls have ears. Never has that been more so than here. Now, come, we must hurry.”

“But…” There was so much that Mick wanted to ask, but this was clearly neither the time nor the place. He hurried after the quickly retreating figure, feeling pleasantly light-headed for knowing that Pete and Beth had survived the avalanche.

Mick’s euphoria, however, was short-lived. Suddenly, without warning, the kikiri he knew as Arissa disappeared.

There was some dim greenish light to see by, for which Mick, he was thankful, but he was alone again and it was more than he could bear.  Beth’s words returned to haunt him. “Damn it, mountain,” Mick cried aloud, “I don’t want to be here either. I mean you no harm! I only want to help…” he added tearfully.

A curious but not unpleasant rushing noise in his ears took on a musical sound and he recognised The Okay Song, a lullaby his mother had once sung to him and Pete what seemed a lifetime ago.  It was very reassuring, and in spite of an overwhelming sensation of homesickness, Mick began to feel more positive. Soon, he was on his feet again, and staggering a little, made  steady progress through the gloomy maze of tunnels, some natural, others constructed by slaves long ago.  At times, the tunnels opened up to expose huge caverns descending into bottomless pits. These could only be avoided by walking along ledges barely wide enough for one foot at a time. 

Gingerly, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, his body pressed against the wall of rock, Mick began edging his way past one such yawning chasm when he heard a plaintive cry.

“Help…!” 

Forcing himself to look down, Mick peered into a hideous emptiness, able to see nothing at first. Breathless, heart performing somersaults, he leant against the cavern wall for support and a temporary if deceptive sense of safety.

“Help me!” The cry came again, much weaker now.

Mick leaned over as far as he dared and looked again. It was a sheer drop, but he could just make out a small, shadowy figure trapped on a broken ledge.

It was Fred.

“Fred, is that you?” Mick yelled and his voice echoed eerily all around like a frantic boom, boom, booming sound.

“Yes,” Fred shouted from below, “I am trapped. “

“Are you hurt?”

“Not badly, but I don’t think this ledge will hold for much longer.”

Mick fell back against the rock wall again to catch his breath and consider what if anything he could do to help poor Fred. If only I had some rope. But he had no rope and climbing down the rock face and up again was out of the question. He guessed the little Foss must have lost his footing.  No surprises there, he brooded grimly. The mountain is a death trap.  “Damn you, mountain, he yelled aloud, and the resulting cacophony was deafening.

“Mark me well, Motherworlder,” a new voice penetrated Mick’s swimming consciousness and almost caused him to lose his footing. Shakily recovering his balance, he looked in the direction from which the voice had come. At the far end of the ledge, at the mouth of what looked like another tunnel, stood the tall, imposing figure of the druid, Ygor. Behind him, Mick could just make out several more robed figures. Ygor was holding what looked like a coil of wire.  Barely had he registered this fact when Mick became aware of something snake-like writhing along the ledge toward him to land at his feet. . Instinctively, he bent to retrieve it. 

Rope..!

Rope, yet not rope as Mick knew it, made of a material that was silky to the touch, but not silk either.

“Tie it around your waist and go to the aid of your friend. Then swing this way and leave the rest to me.”  It was not a suggestion, but a command.

Mick did as he was told, relieved at first that here was a chance to rescue poor Fred. It was not until he had tied the knot around his waist and looked down that the enormity of the task ahead struck him like a savage blow to the head.  Could he trust Ygor? No, of course I can’t. And what if the rope breaks …? He felt physically sick.  Yet, what choice did he have? No choice at all.

He turned and began to slowly abseil towards the trembling, sobbing, Foss. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” wailed the dwarf which did nothing to alleviate Mick’s terror that the rope might snap at any second.  

Finally, Mick was able to get a footing on the ledge. Foss and Motherworlder embraced each other with genuine affection as well as relief. It was just as well, for it was while Mick had the little fellow in a bear hug that the mountain began to shake and roar. In an instant, the ;edge on which they were so precariously balanced crumbled away.

Hurled into the abyss, screaming and clinging to each other, both were convinced these were their last moments of life.   

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

“You are not getting out of this car, Fred Winter, until you tell me exactly what you’re up to.” Sadie Chapman laid a restraining hand on the detective’s arm.

“I’m not Liam, Sadie, so don’t talk to me as if I were knee high to a flaming grasshopper!” Winter snapped and tried to pull away.

Sadie’s grip tightened. “Is that what you think? That I’m a cradle snatcher?” Her face fell, became a picture of misery that genuinely surprised him. “I dare say his mother thinks that too,” she added with uncharacteristic bitterness. 

Winter’s guffaw wasn’t in the least forced. “My dear Sadie, you’re no more a cradle snatcher than I am!” In his mind’s eye he saw himself sitting next to the pretty student in the Dane John Gardens in Canterbury (What was her name?) struggling with an essay about Joseph Conrad. He guffawed again. He could see the girl’s face clearly enough, but no name sprang to mind. Then the face dissolved, suddenly, into another, to which he had no problem putting a name. Nor could he look away from the lovely violet eyes even as he collected himself sufficiently to carry on talking to Sadie Chapman. Ah, Carol, where did we go wrong? “You really mustn’t worry my dear. Young Liam has a mind of his own, like his mother. It’s my guess, that’s how he survived as Harry Smith. If he loves you, as I am sure he does, neither Carol nor wild horses come into the equation. Trust an old copper who’s seen it all.” He chuckled and gently prised her hand free from his arm but made no immediate move to get out of the car. 

“You’re not old.” He felt reassured by her mock seriousness.

“I dare say we can both give the devil a run for his money yet,” he remarked with a grin. “Now, Lovell’s on his way so you’ll soon have some company.  Whatever happens, don’t let anyone near the place until I give the word.  I mean that, Sadie, and make sure Lovell knows I mean it too. No matter what you see or hear, no one comes barging in until I say so. Understood?”

Sadie nodded, looking far from happy. “You’re mad, stark raving mad. If this Cotter bloke is in there, he’s not going to stand by and let you hand him over to the police or anyone else for that matter. He’ll kill you, just like he killed Liam’s dad. And the partner, how do you propose to deal with him? Horton’s no pushover from what precious little I’ve managed to piece together so far. It’s not as if anyone tells me much,” she added darkly.

“Trust me. And don’t worry about Liam. He adores you.” Winter tried to sound reassuring, but was already easing himself out of the passenger seat without waiting for a response. He strode, purposefully, towards the house, trying hard not to grimace with every painful step. At the door, he hesitated but a fraction before ringing the bell.

No reply.

He tried again, keeping his finger pressed against the buzzer longer this time.

Still there was no reply.

He bent down and peered through the letterbox. “It’s Fred Winter. You know me and you know I know you. And I know you’re in there. So you might as well let me in for a chat as carry on playing silly beggars. Because I’m not shifting my fat arse and that means you’re not shifting yours either, except to get off it one of you, and open the bloody door.”

A heavy silence dragged on for so long that Winter began to wonder whether perhaps his hunch hadn’t been way off target after all.

“You mess with us again, Mr Detective and next time you won’t get off so lightly,” came a rattled voice from within. Winter recognized Horton’s voice. A muffled exchange followed between it and another squeaky, protesting noise that Horton assumed to be Cotter’s.

“Are you mad?  If we let him in we’re done for!” Cotter was saying.

Horton shrugged. “We might as well hear what he’s got to say. Could be, we’re done for anyway so what have we got to lose?” He went to the door and opened it, holding on tightly to the revolver as he did so. “Come in, copper, and make yourself at home.”

“Ex-copper,” Winter reminded him, careful to keep his tone even, almost friendly. “I don’t mind if I do, thanks.” He stepped inside. 

From her vantage point in the car, Sadie Chapman felt her heart skip a beat and prayed for Lovell to hurry.

Both men had cleaned themselves up and changed their clothes.  Moreover, judging by the way shirts and jeans hung loose on Cotter and fitted tightly on Horton, Winter could only assume they had raided Sam Bishop’s wardrobe. (Where is Bishop, anyhow?)

Cotter had abandoned his Sarah Manners disguise. It came as something of a shock to Winter’s system to find himself confronted by this nervous, balding man who emanated none of the librarian’s authoritative manner or strident good looks.  Without waiting to be invited, he eased himself into a chair and summoned a leisurely smile as if he were, indeed, nothing more than old friend popping in for a chat. “I suppose you thought it was clever to come here? Sorry to disappoint you,” he began conversationally, “You must realize you haven’t a dog in hell’s chance of getting away with attempted murder, not to mention the success stories already notched up. How many is it now - two, three, four?  Let’s see…” counting on his fingers, “there’s Sean Brady of course, then there’s the real Marc Philips and James Morrissey. We  mustn’t forget Ruth Temple either. Bump her off too did you?  Silly question, of course you did. Oh, and let’s not miss out Sarah Manners. What happened to her, eh, the real one I mean?  It must have put a spanner in the works good and proper when Liam Brady turned up alive and kicking? I’ll say! Still, it was a good excuse to try again and maybe even manage to lose a few more spanners along the way, eh?”

“Not to mention the odd copper,” Horton sneered while pointing the gun directly at Winter and pretending to shoot. “Bang, bang, you’re dead!” He gave a loud guffaw. “It’s just like when we were kids, eh, playing cowboys and Indians…or maybe you preferred cops and robbers, eh, Fred my old son?” He guffawed again. Cotter, for his part, stayed silent, eyes darting between the detective and Horton as if he were some faintly hypnotised spectator at a tennis match. “Weird, isn’t it? All those clues when you’re a kid as to how you’re likely to turn out and no one picks up on them, just leaves you to follow the trail yourself. And here we are, at the end of the road, all grown up and still playing stupid games.”

“It’s the end of the road all right,” Winter agreed.

“For you, too, copper. I only have to pull the trigger and…whoosh…no more Fred Winter.”      

    “If that’s what turns you on.” Winter gave a nonchalant snort. “But then killing people must come as second nature to the pair of you by now.  Doesn’t it ever get tedious?  Mind you, killing a copper, even an ex-copper, that has to be a bit special I suppose…different, anyway. You might as well go out in a blaze of glory since all you’ve got to look forward to is fading away in some shit hole of a prison.” He looked pointedly at Cotter, “The old lags will have a field day with you. They’ll think Christmas has come early!”

    Cotter took the bait. “I can’t go to prison, Daz, I just can’t!” he wailed. “You’ve got to get us out of here.”

     “I’d say the ball’s in your court, Horton, wouldn’t you?” Winter’s icy smile belied his casual tone. “So what’s the plan? You can try using me as a hostage of course, but it won’t help you much. We’re too far into the game for that and you know it. As for killing me, well, go ahead and see where it gets you…”

    “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Horton bluntly. Winter recoiled involuntarily, in the chair. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You haven’t come to do a deal or talk us into giving ourselves up. You’re got a flaming death wish!” He threw back his head and roared with laughter. 

     Winter, to his utter consternation, found himself blushing. “Think what you like,” he snapped.

“See, Ralph, he can’t even deny it. Why is that?  I’ll tell you, shall I? Because once a copper always a copper and coppers are always supposed to tell the truth. You poor arse-hole, life got that damn pathetic for you has it?”

“Hark who’s talking!” Winter countered, forcing a laugh but feeling horribly exposed all the same. He hadn’t expected this.  It was wild, misinformed speculation on Horton’s part of course. Or was it?  Had some kind of death wish brought him here?  For a moment he honestly wondered, then (almost) dismissed the notion from his mind as nothing more than a preposterous fantasy on Horton’s part. Let him play amateur psychologist if he likes. Fred Winter knows himself better than that. Well, didn’t he?  He missed Helen, of course he did, but…

Winter gritted his teeth, forced draw on untapped reserves of willpower and professionalism in order to concentrate on the matter in hand. Turning to Cotter again, he jibed, “Cat got your tongue, Miss Manners? To think you had us all fooled as a woman who could hold her own with the best of ’em. Who’d have guessed what you were hiding in your knickers?”

“Why, you…” Cotter made an impotent lunge towards him. Winter forced himself not to stir. Cotter stopped suddenly, uttered a yelp and limped backwards to rejoin Horton.  “He can’t talk to me like that, Daz, can he? You can’t let him talk to me like that. Give me the gun, I’ll show him, damn me if I won’t.”

But Horton clearly had no intention of surrendering the weapon. Instead, he continued to taunt the detective with a vicious sarcasm, “Sorry to disappoint you, copper. You’re free to walk out of here any time you like. Have a nice day, yeah?”

“And what about you, are you coming with me?”  Winter may have been caught momentarily off guard but he was no fool. Two can play at this game.

Horton guffawed again. “Thanks for the invite, copper but – no thanks. We walk out that door with you and we kiss our freedom goodbye, right?”

“Try walking out that door without me and you’re dead meat,” Winter retorted, resisting an impulse to cross his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Had Lovell arrived on the scene yet, he wondered?

“What are we going to do?” an erstwhile Sarah Manners was sobbing now. “You said everything would be okay, you promised…” Cotter rounded on Horton accusingly.

Horton’s eyes hadn’t left the detective’s face.  Winter was bluffing, he was sure of it.  The old buzzard was right about one thing, though, he was certain of that too.  This is endgame. “You won’t mind if my partner and I have a few words in private?” Winter shrugged, spread his hands and shook his head. “Go in the bedroom, flower. I’ll be right with you. No, not that one,” he snapped as Cotter made to go into the same room where Sam Bishop lay trussed on the bed. “Go on, I’ll be right there,” he repeated encouragingly,  “and shut the damn door.” Cotter did as he was told but left the door slightly ajar.

Horton turned his attention back to the detective. “You’re not so clever, copper. You and I both know the score. Ralph and me may well have come to a dead-end but at least we’ve had a good run. Can you honestly say that?  No, I didn’t think so. It shows, you know. One look in them baby blues and anyone can see you’re nothing more than a done-for has-been who’s wondering what the devil it’s all been about.”  Then, after a long pause, “Am I right or am I right?” he leered.

Winter shrugged, hoping to convey a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “Think what you like, I’m not the one whose life is on the line here.”

“No?”

In spite of himself, the detective visibly winced. It required a maximum of effort to keep his voice steady and controlled. “It’s like you said, we both know the score,” he responded cryptically.

Horton shrugged. “See you later, alligator…” he sneered and followed Cotter into the bedroom.

“In a while, crocodile…” Winter muttered. But if the other man heard, he gave no sign.

In the bedroom, Cotter was standing by the window. He was trembling. Gazing at a flowering hydrangea, gently caressed by shadows in a fast failing light, he did not turn round upon hearing Horton enter, close the door behind him and approach.

“We will be okay, Daz? You do have a plan?”

“Have I ever let you down?”  In an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, Horton slipped his hand in Cotter’s. “It’s you and me against the world, flower, right? What chance does this fucked-up old world stand against the likes of you and me, eh? We’ve been there, done that, and what the heck?  So we have to start over...so what?  You’re not going to chicken out on me now, are you?” he chuckled.

Cotter felt suddenly much calmer. It was good to hear the familiar sound in his ear, feel the large, rough hand squeeze his own so …lovingly? He had often wondered if Daz really loved him, since he had never said so. Now, at last, he thought he knew. It was a good feeling.  Daz would have a plan. Everything was going to be just fine. . He half turned, still debating with himself whether or not to give Daz a big hug and a long, sloppy kiss…when Horton pulled the trigger and blew his lover’s brains out.

For a long time, Horton knelt in that gloomy room, Cotter’s head in his lap, wide eyes unseeing that he could not bear to close.  Would Fred Winter still be there, he wondered? Of course he would. The detective, too, had known the whole fucked-up score. Winter would wait for as long as it took him, Darren Andrew Horton, to come to a decision. Twice, three times, four times, he raised the gun barrel to his head and rammed it against his skull.  Each time he lowered it, cuddled Cotter and sought hard and long for a glimpse of - what?  Redemption…justification…blame…love, even?  Had it been love that kept them together? He’d often wondered…

But the sightless eyes were giving nothing away.

Horton was getting cramp. He shifted his position slightly. Cotter’s body felt like a ton weight in his lap. He leaned over the pale, already partially discoloured face and kissed the cold lips.

Once again he raised the gun to his head then changed his mind and rammed the barrel in his mouth instead. Without taking his eyes from Cotter’s, his finger stroked the trigger. “You can do it, Daz, you can do it,” the already stiffening corpse - whose dry, matted hair he had begun to stroke with his free hand - seemed to be urging him.”  He couldn’t resist a chuckle. It wasn’t like Ralph to sound so confident. There had to be an ulterior motive of course and he thought he knew what it was. Ralph would not be able to stand being on his own for long…whether it in heaven or hell. Is there a hell? He had never given it much thought before but now he wished, fervently, that he knew for sure. You can do it, you know you can, a familiar voice in his head kept saying. But, could he?

On hearing the first shot, Winter had resisted his first impulse to investigate, barely shifting in his chair even, but waited, expectantly, for a second. When it didn’t come, he helped himself to a stiff drink then decided it was time he found out what had happened to Sam Bishop.  He went into the main bedroom, freed the terrified man but held a finger to his lips as he removed the gag. “Say nothing,” he whispered, “just leave the house, quietly. A friend of mine is waiting in her car outside. Wait there until the police come, if they’re not here already. And make sure no one, NO ONE, comes within an inch of the front door before I give the word. Do you understand?”

Sam Bishop nodded, swallowing hard, having long since given up even trying to make any sense of the situation. “It’s nightmare, a bloody nightmare,” he croaked back, “Just get me out of here!”  Careful, in spite of a growing desperation, to keep his voice low, he stammered, “My wife…?”

 Winter shook his head. “Later. She’s fine,” he added, trying hard not to imagine the pale, battered face as he had seen it last. “Go now, but keep very quiet,” he whispered. Sam Bishop did not need to be told twice. Seconds later he was gone, his toupee slipping… Like a furry bat out of hell… Winter chuckled, grateful for a snatch of humour to help ease his discomfiture.

As soon as Bishop had left, the detective went and put an ear to the wall. But there was barely a sound issuing from the next room and no voices. One of them had to be dead, he reasoned. In which case, what the devil was the other one (it had to be Horton, surely?) playing at?  Or maybe Horton had flunked it and both were still alive?  Anything was possible. You might as well face it, Fred Winter. Reason has no place in this particular equation.  He returned to the same chair in the sitting room but not before taking a swig from a half-empty bottle of excellent white rum on the table. Nor did he let go of the bottle.  

By the time he heard the second shot, the detective had lapsed into a maudlin, if not morbid state.  His earlier exchange with Horton kept returning to haunt him. He had been acting on a hunch, a copper’s nose. There was no question of any ulterior motive, certainly no death wish. The whole idea was fanciful, absurd in the extreme.  Sure, he had been unhappy since Helen died and there had been times, now and then, when he’d wished…that he was dead? No, never that. Even so, it would have been nice to go first, perhaps…

The second shot continued to reverberate in his head for some time, far longer than the first.

He had no inclination to go and see whether Horton had shot himself or flunked it.  Nor had he the slightest desire to stare death in the face. Not his own, or anyone else’s.  Oh, he’d seen plenty of dead bodies in his time. It went with the territory, after all. He’d long since ceased to be squeamish about death.

When he’d first looked upon Helen’s pretty, made-up face in the funeral parlour, it had been hard to believe at first that she wasn’t asleep. Then he’d caught a glimpse of something immensely sad, beyond the subtle hairdressing skills and undertaker’s arts – and hadn’t like what he saw. He’d left abruptly, caught up not only in an overwhelming grief but also an abiding fear. Yes, he, Fred Winter, was afraid. In his job, he could expect to be called upon to deal with all sorts. And hadn’t he taken everything and everyone in his stride? But this…this was personal. Helen’s death (taking another swig of rum and spluttering on it) had…yes, unmanned him. “Shit!” he growled, scrambled awkwardly to his feet and, lurching only a little, left the house.   

Sadie Chapman gave a cry of relief, ran towards the detective, embraced him in a big hug and chose to ignore the obvious fact that he’d been drinking heavily.

Over her right shoulder, Winter could just make out Charlie Lovell’s concerned expression as well as Pritchard’s red hair and some bodiless flak jackets. Mouth wide open, he promptly forgot what he was going to say then discovered he couldn’t shut it again.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Fred Winter passed out cold.

  

EPILOGUE 

Come on, Fred, get off your backside and do what a man has to do. This place is a tip. Helen must be turning in her grave. Winter, sprawled in his favourite armchair, lifted one eye, risked a glance around the room and closed it again.  For a while longer, he ignored the persistent, nagging voice in his head. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He got up, made his way through a jumble of newspapers, magazines, beer cans and dirty plates to the window, took one look at the garden - and wished he hadn’t.

He went to the bathroom, spared a passing glance at a mirror over the washbasin and tried to remember the last time he’d had an encounter with soap and water. “You look rough, my friend, really rough,” he told the sombre reflection with a total absence of remorse.

The doorbell rang. He ignored it. It rang again, and again, and again.

“Go away, I’m out!” he yelled.

“I’m not going anywhere so you might as well let me in!” Carol Brady’s voice shouted back at him through the letterbox.

Winter groaned. Carol was not a woman to take no for an answer. Was that why, he wondered, he had written her a note all those years ago rather than tell her to her face it was over between them? He groaned again. Why had he listened to Julie Simpson?  Why hadn’t he stuck to his guns and told her to find someone else to chase after her fantasies. Only, they hadn’t been fantasies, had they?  He’d found himself on a murder trail the weirdest creative mind could not have composed for the worst pulp fiction. Even if it had, no one would have thought it remotely credible. And fiction had to be credible, didn’t it?  We mustn’t feel we’re being taken for a ride. Yet, he had been, hadn’t he?  He’d been taken for a ride by his own stupid conscience and Carol Brady was right there in the thick of it, dragging on his nerves like a carthorse taking coals to Newcastle. Do I love her?  “Damn the woman,” he growled.

“I know you’re in there, Freddy, so let me in!”

No, he didn’t love her. Nor had he ever. Helen meant everything to him. Now he had nothing. Listen to yourself, you self-pitying slob.  What are you, a man or a mouse? No, he didn’t love her. Oh, but I’ve missed her. Yes, he’d certainly missed her.

Winter sighed. He had missed them all…Julie Simpson, Sadie, young Liam, Arthur Bailey, Charlie Lovell, even Pritchard and dotty old Audrey Ellis. It had been good while it lasted, good to feel…useful again.

“Either you let me in or buy a new front door because there won’t be much of it left by the time I’m through!”  Carol Brady’s voice had an edge to it that he recognized. She meant business.

Sighing wearily and reflecting that he felt twice his age (probably just as well since he looked it?) Winter went to the door and opened it a fraction. “What do you want, Carol?”  

“Never mind what I want,” she returned breezily, “It’s bloody obvious what you want – a good wash and tidy up for starters!” She barged her way noisily into the house and he made no attempt to stop her, if for no better reason than it would have been a waste of time and energy. She looked around, hand on hips. 

So much like Miss Parker on the warpath, Winter reflected and heaved  a sigh. For what was he sighing, he asked himself, defeat,  resignation, pleasure...? The detective frowned and permitted himself a wry smile. Yes, pleasure was definitely in the frame. 

 “My, Freddy, you certainly know how to turn a place upside down. What a mess!” She flung him an accusing look. “I’ve heard you can tell how a person lives by the way he looks. Now I know it’s true. What are you trying to prove, Freddy…that old coppers don’t fade away, they just end up on a rubbish tip?”

“Less of the old,” he complained irritably. She’d always had this effect on him since the first time they met. He’d never known such a woman for knowing how to get under a man’s skin.

“You know me, Freddy Winter, I speak as I find.”

“You don’t know the half of it!”

“No, and I haven’t got time to hear it either. Go and get washed and changed and I’ll see what I can do about making this place halfway respectable. But you’ll have to look me out an old shirt and jeans or something, I’m not ruining this outfit to save your face so don’t think for one minute I am…”

He realized then that she was dressed up to the nines and looked…fantastic.

“You’re looking okay,” he conceded, “Going somewhere?”

“Julie Simpson’s wedding.”

“It’s on then?” He had begun to wonder.

“Yes, and we’re been invited.”

“By ‘we’ I take it you mean, you and Liam?”

“No thickhead, you and me. Besides, Liam’s going with Sadie.” She glanced at her watch. “They will be here to pick us up in less than an hour so we’d better get our skates on.”

In Winter’s bedroom, Carol began to undress. He stared, open-mouthed, for several seconds before it occurred to him to look away. “I haven’t got anything you haven’t seen before, so gawp all you like. Now, get me a shirt. Don’t bother, this one will do.” She picked up a striped shirt left hanging carelessly over the back of a chair, retrieved a pair of jeans from the floor and slipped into them. Right, that’s me ready for a spot of spit ‘n’ polish. Now let’s see how long it takes you to get ready for a wedding, shall we?”           

“What gives you the right to barge in here and start telling me what to do?”

“You’re right, I’m out of order. Now, are you going to do me proud at this wedding or do I have to tell my son and his…fiancée…that I had to give you up for a bad job?”

She stood, glaring, hands on hips again, the lovely violet eyes issuing a challenge he could not refuse.

………………..

Miles away, Horton’s eyes were barely open. He could have been asleep. Only, he wasn’t.

A sound like waves crashing about his ears, Horton turned his head a fraction, the better to observe a uniformed police constable lolling in an armchair beside the hospital bed while flicking through pages of a magazine.

In his mind’s eye, Horton saw Ralph Cotter’s face. How could he ever have thought murder was easy? Killing his lover had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Yet, he had no regrets. Poor Ralph would never have coped with a life behind bars. As for himself…would he fare any better, he wondered? Why, oh, why had he fired the gun into the bed instead of his mouth? How can I have so lost my nerve at the last second? Could it be that fate hadn’t quite finished with him just yet…?

A young doctor arrived, nodded to the constable and proceeded to curtain off the bed. Horton pricked up his ears at the sound of retreating footsteps. The constable had left, to answer a call of nature perhaps?

The doctor was speaking but Horton did not hear a word. The glimmer of an idea was taking shape in his mind like sunshine penetrating layers of mist.

Bending over Horton and resting a stethoscope on his chest, the doctor bowed his head. Caught completely off guard by the attack, he did not even cry out. Seconds later, he could only manage a low, croaking noise. Nor did the young registrar struggle for long as large, determined hands tightened their grip around his neck…

If no one stops me before I get out of this damn ward, I’m home and dry, Horton kept telling himself as he walked slowly, purposefully, towards the doors at the end of the ward, If no one stops me...

No one did.

The End