Читать книгу Dark Ages - John Pritchard - Страница 22
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Again they’d clubbed him down with their narcotics; but in his dreams he rose again, and wandered through the corridors of Hell. The colony appeared in ruins, its gateways overgrown. Owls were hooting from the chimney-tower. The shadows were unquiet, full of whispering and sobs.
Dominicain advanced into the labyrinth. A creeping fear came over him – as if this were some giant spider’s lair. But something brushed his face, and drew him onward: a summons as elusive as a sigh.
He saw a light ahead of him – unfolding in the darkness like a flower. The glow was pale, unhealthy, and he wavered for a moment; then started down the passageway towards it. As he glided closer, it resolved into a face: a deathly visage, hanging in the gloom. The eyes were like two windows on the inky dark beyond.
They watched him come, those empty eyes. And then the phantom spoke.
Be patient in your cell, devoted friend.
The term of thy imprisonment is done.
Await the man of power whom I shall send.
The language was Italian – the Tuscan dialect he spoke himself. He didn’t recognize the lines, and yet they were familiar. Their richness and arrangement made him think of Dante’s work.
Not quoted this time, though. They spoke to him.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded hoarsely.
The white face didn’t answer that; instead it threw the focus back on him.
You shall become that Hound the poet saw,
Who drives the hungry She-Wolf back to Hell,
And brings the rule of justice to the poor.
Dominicain was dumbstruck. He recognized that image from the Comedy of Dante: his Inferno. He stared in disbelief – then shook his head.
‘But how can it be me? I am condemned.’
The other stayed inscrutable. He had to be a Messenger, Dominicain thought wildly. A being of light, beneath his cloak of darkness.
So who had pleaded for his soul, to win him this remission?
‘The lady who has charge of me …’ He hesitated. ‘Is she one of the blessed?’
The other seemed to ponder that; then moved his solemn head from side to side.
She owes allegiance to a darker power.
It may be she will seek to hinder you.
So you must show no pity in that hour.
Dominicain absorbed that wisdom grimly. He was just about to speak again when everything dissolved. His soul came winging back along the darkened corridors, returning to his body like a sparrow to its nest.
His dull, unfocused eyes slid halfway open, but he lay there like a dead man until morning. The apparition’s rhythmic words still throbbed in his head.
2
Martin’s breathing body stirred beside her, but it felt as if she was lying here alone. Nestled against his naked back, Claire tried to warm herself – but the lump of ice inside her didn’t melt. His heartbeat pulsed in time with hers; but his mind was silent, locked inside his skull.
The bedside clock said two a.m.; it might as well be lunchtime. She didn’t think she’d ever get to sleep.
If only she could tell what he was thinking. If only she could see into his dreams. Maybe then she’d understand the welter of emotions he had shown. There’d been a spark of wonder, to be sure. She’d snatched at it, ignoring the dismay. Then he’d lost his rag, and started shouting. All her fault: she’d done it just to trap him. How dare you even think that? she’d yelled back. As the fight raged round the flat, she’d realized he was scared. Frightened of commitment in itself – or by their prospects? She wouldn’t blame him, if it was the latter. She was bloody terrified as well.
But later, when he’d quietened down, the fear had still been there. She’d peeped into the living room, and seen him trying to read. His skin looked cold and milky pale; his eyes like haunted wells.
She’d had a horrid notion then. He looked like someone diagnosed with cancer – frightened for the people whom his illness would drag down. The family who didn’t even know … It couldn’t be. She’d crushed the inkling out. But two nights later, here it was – still smouldering.
For God’s sake, don’t be stupid. He wouldn’t keep a thing like that from me.
At least he hadn’t packed his bags. At least she had his body in her arms. She sniffed, and laid her cheek against his shoulder. A single tear ran down onto his skin. She’d cried at work today, as well – in front of John, who’d watched with solemn eyes. She wondered what he’d made of it. His cryptic mind was just as hard to read.
Subsiding into sleep at last, she dreamed of spiders creeping up the bed: dozens of them, all spindly legs and petrol-bloated bodies. Catching fire, they scuttled blindly forward. She felt them on her naked skin. Paralysed, she smelt the duvet burning. More of them were crawling on the ceiling: they dropped towards her face like falling stars. Her scream was just a whimper in the stillness of the room. She curled into a ball, and didn’t wake.
3
The sound was just a rustling at first: like rain against the flat roof overhead. Martin lay there, semi-conscious, trying to ignore it. But slowly it grew louder: a crackling noise that seemed to fill the room. Like burning wood. He sat up with a start.
The bedroom was in darkness – he could see no sign of flames. And yet there was a bluish gleam, infusing the dense air. He sat and squinted, baffled – then looked down.
His hands were glowing.
He raised his palms, and stared at them in frozen disbelief. His skin was radiating cold blue light. The frosty crackle sounded like a Geiger counter now. He rubbed his hands together – no effect. The light was welling up from every pore.
Springing out of bed, he stumbled over to the mirror. His face was luminous as well, a disembodied mask. The snap and sizzle of decay was growing all the time. Yet Claire was still asleep – she hadn’t heard it. She couldn’t feel the particles that soaked into her skin.
I’ve touched her with these hands; she’s kissed my face. So she must be contaminated too. Together with what was growing in her womb.
Did magic have a lethal dose? A power to deform?
The crackling reached a peak – and then cut off. The ghostly blue plutonium-glow went out. He thought he’d been struck blind again, and felt his heart freeze up; then realized he was buried in the bedclothes. The bed was hot, and stank of sweat. Claire lay snug against him, moaning softly.
He shrank away from her, got up, and blundered to the bathroom.
Waking up, Claire clutched herself; revulsion made her squirm against the headboard. Her skin was slick, her nerves still itching madly. The dream itself was like a web. It took her several moments to break free.
She slumped against the headboard with her arms around her legs. Her fringe was matted, hanging in her eyes. Shower, she thought – and realized there was nobody beside her. A fleeting twinge of dread, and then she heard water splashing. Light reflected through the open doorway. Shit, he beat me to it, she thought wryly.
Better join him.
Going through, she found him there, beneath the steaming blast – still scrubbing at his raw, abraded skin.
