Читать книгу City of Time - Eoin McNamee, Eoin McNamee - Страница 9

Owen ran back down the tunnel. There was no sign of the flood that had swept him to it, except for damp rubbish and debris. The end opened on to the river five metres above the water. There was no sign of the masonry that had hidden it, or of the fleur-de-lis.

Then he caught sight of Cati. She was sitting on the riverbank, half hidden by a tree. She got to her feet and called his name, “Owen!” then sat down again, looking hopeless.

“Cati!” he yelled. She leaped to her feet, looking frantically up and down the river. “Cati! Up here.”

She looked up. Relief flooded across her face. Owen swung off the lip of the tunnel and dropped on to a pile of fresh seaweed on the ground below. Cati was on her feet now and he knew what was coming. For several moments he stood with his head meekly bowed as she told him off.

Then he interrupted. “I found it!”

“Found what?”

“The entrance! The way to Hadima.”

“What? You’re joking! Where?”

“Up there, in that drain,” he said. “The earthquake brought the wall down and the water swept me there.” Quickly he told her what he had found.

Cati looked up. The entrance was barely visible. You had the impression of a shadow on the wall, nothing more.

“We have to tell Dr Diamond,” Cati said.

“Yes,” Owen said firmly. “But first we need to make sure that the Raggies are all right.”

Squelching in wet clothes and shoes, Owen told Cati about the hidden courtyard on their way to the harbour. They could hear the sirens of fire brigades and ambulances in the town, but the river curved away and the sound soon faded. As they walked, Owen noticed that sometimes Cati shimmered and almost dissolved from sight.

“Are you invisible to other people? At the moment?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.” Cati looked worried. “Whatever is happening to time has made me visible to everyone.”

Owen wanted to ask more, but Cati hurried on ahead. They could see a group of what appeared to be derelict warehouses up ahead, home to the Raggies.

“Hurry up,” Cati said.

They ducked under the fence that separated the warehouses from the rest of the harbour area.

“They are sleeping in the far building,” Cati said. “I checked on them the other day.”

Owen followed Cati to the furthest warehouse. The buildings were more rundown than he remembered. Last time he’d seen them, they’d been full of children’s voices and running feet. At the back of the warehouse a small stone staircase led to a basement.

The door was small and made of wood, studded with nails. Cati took a key from around her neck – the same key that opened the Starry in the Workhouse. She opened the door and pushed Owen inside, closing it quickly behind them.

Owen found himself in a smaller version of the Resisters’ Starry. The ceiling glittered with what seemed like stars on a dark blue background. Small beds stood throughout the room and on each one a child slept. Owen recognised Uel and Mervyn, the brothers who had reluctantly fought for the Raggies when they had sailed forth with Cati and Dr Diamond. He saw Silkie, the oldest girl, her smooth skin and fine features contrasting with the calloused and work worn hands folded across her breast.

At the top of the room his friend Wesley slept soundly, a frown on his face. Owen wished that those shrewd and intelligent eyes would open without his prompting.

“Something’s wrong,” Cati said. “Can you smell it?”

Owen sniffed the air. There was something odd, more noticeable than at the Workhouse Starry. There at least the air smelled dry and clean – like sleep, if sleep had a smell. Here there was an odour of decay, sweetish and sickly. Some of the children were breathing rapidly. Others had cold sweat on their brow. Then, in the darkness, someone moaned, the small, frightened sound of a child having a nightmare.

“This isn’t good,” Cati whispered. “The air is stale.”

“It’s not the air,” Owen said. “I think time itself is stale. Stale and old… I have to wake Wesley!”

He stumbled through the rows, put his hands on his friend’s forehead and closed his eyes. Wesley seemed very far away, at the bottom of a deep well where nightmarish things lurked. Owen could feel the darkness entering his own mind, smothering his thoughts, dragging him down and down, until panic overwhelmed him. He struggled to get back to the surface, but couldn’t. The darkness would take him and hold him there for ever.

And then he sensed Wesley’s presence reaching out to him. With a final terrible wrench, Owen turned away from the dark and forced his mind to wakefulness, Wesley with him. He staggered back and fell against Silkie’s bed, his hands brushing her face.

Owen straightened up, as weary as he had ever been. As he looked down on his friend, Wesley’s eyes opened. In one single movement, he threw himself on Owen, his arms flailing.

“You won’t take us!” Wesley shouted. “You won’t!”

“Wesley!” Cati shouted. He stopped and looked around, bewildered. He rubbed a hand slowly over his face, then reached out and touched one of the children beside him.

“What’s happening, Cati?” he said. “What’s happening to us Raggies?”

Owen looked out over the harbour. Cati had persuaded Wesley to leave the other children in the Starry and go up into the warehouse above. The warehouse was chilly and unwelcoming, bearing no resemblance to the warm and friendly place that Owen had first visited. Cati got Wesley to light a driftwood fire in the grate to dry their clothes, which were still wet from the flood. As he worked, Cati told him everything they knew, about the message from the Sub Commandant and the City of Time. They told him about the flood that had swept Owen up the river.

“First thing I seen when I woke up,” Wesley said. “The moon’s not in the right place. Something is bad wrong. The Raggies ain’t doing too good.”

“It’s because they’re afloat in time, I think,” Owen said. “They’re like fish in a tank. It’s as if the water is running out and the little bit that is left is getting stale and dirty.”

Normally Wesley was tough and resourceful, but now he looked lost.

“Don’t worry,” Cati said, taking him by the arm. “We’ll sort it out.” Owen wished that he felt as confident.

Wesley disappeared outside. Owen stood in front of the fire, watching the steam coming off his still-damp trousers. When Wesley came back he brought several fresh fish, cleaned and ready to cook. He put them on a stick and started to grill them over the fire. As the smell filled the room, Owen realised he was starving.

Cati had brought some bread in a leather bag which had somehow remained almost dry. They ate the fish and bread with their fingers, in silence. Owen couldn’t remember eating anything more delicious.

When they had finished every scrap, Wesley stood up and stretched. His ribs showed through his ragged clothes and worry made his face look even more gaunt than usual.

“We should get back to the Workhouse,” Cati said. But Wesley had gone to the window and was staring out to sea. “What is it?”

“Look!” he said. In the distance a group of seals were racing across the ocean surface. “Killer whales chasing them,” Wesley said. “Which is odd. Too far north for a whale this time of year.”

Owen joined them at the window. He could see the whale fins cutting the water behind the seals who raced frantically towards a bank of rocks. Just when he thought they had made it, a killer whale burst from the water beneath the seals. It seized one in its jaws and rose high in the air, the seal writhing frantically.

“The poor seal,” Cati breathed.

“It’s the way of the sea,” Wesley said.

The whale rose several metres from the water and turned as if to crash down nose first. But as they watched, it they found they were watching not a live whale, but an enormous skeleton, hanging for a moment in mid-air, the seal still held in the jaws of bone. Then, with a strange, muted splash, the bones plunged to the ocean and were gone.

Wesley stared at Owen and Cati, grim-faced. “We’re in big trouble, ain’t we?”

Mary White knew that it had to be now. She had gone out to her garden that morning. Normally it was her favourite place at this time of year, full of ripe fruit and autumn reds and browns. But now all was grey and withered. She usually kept the radio on in the house for company and this morning she caught snatches of it coming through the window. They were talking about unexplained crop failures, death of livestock.

It is happening quickly, she thought. Her contribution would be small and would cost her dear, but she had to act now.

Mary checked the front of the shop. Johnston’s lorry was no longer there. He probably had plenty of spies around during the day to let him know if she ventured out, but she didn’t care if they saw her. All she had to do was get to Owen’s house. It didn’t matter what happened on the way back. She put on her coat and took a walking stick from the stand in the hall. Then she took a deep breath and stepped out into the road.

It was quiet. The road was never busy. Mary put her hand up to her hair, to make sure the ornate hairpin was still there, and started to walk. She could feel her heart beating in her chest. The world seemed more alive than she had ever known it, and more under threat. You just do your part, she said to herself, and let others worry about the rest of it.

It was only a few minutes to Owen’s house, but it seemed to take for ever. And the garden gate squealed so loudly. Fit to wake the dead, Mary thought, then shuddered at the idea. She followed the overgrown garden path around the corner of the house and slipped in through the kitchen door. She heard a gentle humming sound from the living room and followed it.

Owen’s mother was standing at the table arranging a vase of flowers. The room was untidy and dusty. There were dirty dishes on the floor and one of the curtains hung limply from a broken rail. But Owen’s mother did not seem to notice. In contrast, the flower display was beautiful and delicate.

“Hello, Martha,” Mary said gently.

Owen’s mother turned round, smiling when she saw the old woman. “Mary, it’s good to see you!” she said. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you some tea.” She looked worried then. “I’m not sure if there is any tea. But anyway. You look great.”

“So do you,” Mary said, though Martha looked pale and in need of make-up and a hairbrush. When Owen called at the shop, Mary always asked after his mother and his silence told her that things were not well. As she watched, Martha moved her hands in front of her face distractedly, almost as if invisible cobwebs were hanging in her face and tickling her.

“Come over here and sit down,” Mary said, taking Martha by the hand. She led her to the sofa, where she had to clear away old magazines and clothes from the cushions first. “Tell me, what do you remember?”

Owen’s mother’s eyes met hers. “Remember?” she asked. “What do you mean? I… what do I…? I was married once. Mary, do you remember him? We got married in… Where did we get married?”

Mary sighed. There was a lot to do. Martha’s mind had been frozen all the way through. But she had to be brought back and it would take all the strength that Mary possessed, that and more perhaps. With a surprisingly strong grip, she took hold of both of Martha’s hands and started to talk.

After a few minutes, Martha began to shake her head, trying to break the old woman’s grip, but it was no good. Tears streamed down her face and then she began to wail.