Tonight, the sky was a wash of deep, inky blue—ominous and foreboding. Gray clouds gathered on the horizon like a pall of smoke, and rain lashed the windowpanes, drumming on the roof tiles as if calling him out, demanding his attention. In the distance the stuttering rooftops of Westminster formed a jagged, irregular horizon, like spurs of broken glass.
He could sense something gathering, out there in the darkness. Something bleak and strange; something unwelcome. The avatar knew it, too; that was why it had broken free of its shackles, striding out into the night in search of whatever festered out there amongst the dank alleyways and shadow-draped lanes. He only hoped it might survive the night.
Roland Horwood turned away from the window, allowing the drape to fall back into place. He felt unsettled, unable to fall into his usual evening routine. He’d eaten, but had abandoned the small meal of ham and boiled potatoes halfway through, distracted by the sounds from outside and the itch of uncertainty at the back of his mind. He’d tried numbing the anxiety with a generous glass of red wine, but still it gnawed away at his gut, and he felt jittery, as if his body wanted him to keep pacing. He’d even considered going out there to look for it, but he knew that was a fool’s errand; it could be anywhere within a ten mile radius by now, and he was hardly a proficient tracker.
He crossed the room and clicked the wireless on, but the weather was interfering with the signal, and try as he might, the only sound he could extract from the thing was a burr of static, which only added to his agitation, his sense of sudden isolation. Mostly, he adored living out here, away from the mad rush of the city, from the filth and the bickering and the lolloping ground trains that rolled through the streets, threatening to crush everything in their path. He supposed that was probably a metaphor of some kind, but he was too on edge to find any humor in it.
He imagined the state of his garden once the storm had blown over. It would take him days to put everything back in order—not least to work out what he was going to do, now that the avatar had gone. What if it didn’t return? What if it did? Perhaps he’d been a trifle naïve. He should have considered all of these possibilities. He should have planned.
Horwood flicked off the wireless and returned to the window. There was still no sign of it, out there in the storm. It had been, what, three hours? Maybe more. He hadn’t seen it leave, but he’d found the evidence of its passing when he went outside to check on it—the torn branches and scattered leaves, the strange impressions in the mud, the cavernous hollow where it had stood.
A sudden gust caused raindrops to drum loudly against the pane, only inches from his face, and he leapt back, nearly losing the glasses from the end of his nose. He pushed them back into place with his index finger, then smoothed his shirtfront in embarrassment, despite the fact he was alone.
With a sigh, his heart hammering from the sudden shock, he crossed the room and dropped heavily into his armchair by the fire. The logs he’d piled in the grate earlier that afternoon were still a little damp, and they smoldered and crackled as he warmed himself. He knew there was nothing he could do. Worse, though, he felt he had a sense of what was coming, of what would be needed in the days to come, and through his carelessness, he’d jeopardized it all. He thought he might have played a part in it, somehow, found a way to protect the things he held dear, but now he was left wondering whether everything he’d done had been for nothing.
He picked up his empty wine glass. He supposed there was always the rest of the bottle. He’d regret it in the morning, but for now, it might help. He sloshed another large measure into the glass, and then drained it, gulping it down, willing it to do its work. It warmed the back of his throat, almost causing him to splutter.
The billowing wind brought another dash of rain against the window. He looked round, craning his neck, but there was nothing to see. This time, he would force himself to stay where he was, to put it out of mind.
If it hadn’t returned by the morning, then he’d have to start checking the newspaper reports, maybe take a trip into the city.
He heard the rustle of movement, of feet stirring gravel, and lurched to his feet, upending his wine glass over his trousers. He ignored it, allowing the glass to roll away across the carpet, leaving a stain on the cream pile as stark and uncoordinated as spilled blood.
He returned once more to the window, cupping his hands against the reflection of the gas lamps, pressing his nose up against the cold glass.
There! Something moved. He frowned, squinting, trying to make it out.
There was a thud against the glass beside his head, and, slowly, he stepped back. It was a hand, formed from knotted growths of willow branch and ivy, its fingers splayed. Slowly, it slid away, and he watched it go, listening to the howl of the wind. It was followed by a loud crunch, as something heavy thudded to the gravel, and he knew at once that it was back, and in need of him.
Horwood glanced around, looking for his coat, but he must have left it upstairs, or in the back room, and there wasn’t time to go searching for it. He stumbled to the front door, sliding the chain from the catch and pulling it open. The wind whipped the rain up into his face, causing him to splutter as he staggered out. After the cosy glow of the fire, the chill air caused his teeth to chatter, and he hugged himself as he ran across the driveway, kicking up stones with every footfall.
It was there, lying on the ground like so much damp kindling. It had slumped onto its side, its face buried in the crook of its arm, and it was unmoving.
Huge chunks had been taken out of its torso, and its thigh, and its other arm was missing from the elbow down. As Horwood got closer, dropping to his knees before it, he could see where the vines were trying unsuccessfully to knit themselves back together, to maintain their form.
“Oh no, oh no,” he muttered, as he ran his hands over its flank, feeling the twigs respond, the ivy curling around his fingers. “What have you done?”
The avatar stirred, emitting a sorrowful sound reminiscent of a deep, plaintive sigh.
Shaking his head, Horwood got to his feet, wiping the rain from his eyes. “There’s still time,” he said. “Hold on. I know what we have to do.”