‘Run!’
All Ben’s senses kicked back in at once. He was cold, and wet, and there was something yanking his arm.
‘Run! Ben, run! Come on!’
He was back in the real Towyn, on the seafront, and it was Lucy who was pulling him. The storm had broken. The volcanic clouds had erupted, and the wind was vigorous, and savage: it was an effort not to be thrown backwards, and simply standing was taking all his strength.
There was a flurry of hair and wobbly berobed flesh as panicking druids fled from the water’s edge. Waves crashed into Ben’s legs, and then retreated, ready to reach ever higher up his body on the next pass.
He was having difficulty processing what was going on. The wind tried to blow him one way, while Lucy frantically pulled him another. He lost his footing, and toppled backwards into the water, but Lucy refused to let go.
‘Come on, Ben,’ she said. There was fear and determination in her voice, and Ben could see why. A huge wave was building up before them, rolling high above their heads.
‘I can’t swim,’ said Ben. All of the bravery he had found in the Box was gone. Lucy yanked him up off the floor like he was a naughty toddler, and he landed back on his feet.
The owner of a nearby restaurant stood beside her front door, beckoning the beleaguered druids inside. If she was afraid of what the sea was about to do to her livelihood, she did not show it: she stood resolute, barking orders at the incoming deluge of damp pagans.
Ben and Lucy raced inside. The door was slammed shut behind them, and seconds later the wave impacted. Water gushed through into the reception, and the woman herded them upstairs into a large function room.
Ben squelched down in the far corner, exhausted. He dropped his satchel and the demons dragged themselves out. Djinn floated aimlessly round the room, croaking out the word ‘food’ until his nose caught the whiff of something and he wafted over to the stairs. Kartofel and Orff both seemed to lack the energy to move, and sat quietly on the floor. Orff managed to gasp a few words about West Nile Fever, but that was all. He did not mention his ankle, which now had a large fist-shaped bruise on it where Ben had grabbed him.
The druids congregated in the middle of the room, unashamedly taking off bits of clothing and putting them on radiators. Ben had never seen so many people in underwear. He didn’t know where to look.
‘You need to dry out,’ said Lucy. She was wearing a dressing gown, and her hair was damp. ‘I grabbed you a bathrobe and a towel before they all got taken. Mrs Curry, the lady who runs this place, has given us as much as she can spare. You’ll have to pass it on to someone else once your clothes are dry, but I thought it’d be nicer to have a fresh one.’
‘Nnnn, how come you got a dressing gown, you little turd?’ said Tegwyn, skulking over to them. ‘I’m the treasurer of the Guild of North Wales Pagans, Rhyl and Towyn Branch. You’re not even a druid.’
‘Mrs Curry gave it to me,’ said Lucy. ‘She specifically said it was for Ben, since he’d fallen in the water and he was the wettest. If you don’t like it, you can take it up with her.’ Lucy pointed over to the woman, who was overseeing the evacuation of a large television set from the bar downstairs. She wore every one of her twenty-five years in the pub trade: they had covered her in enough tattoos to intimidate whole rugby teams. Tegwyn took one look at her and skulked off.
‘I think he’s upset because the sea gave him his bath a few months early,’ whispered Lucy, and Ben laughed. ‘When you’ve changed, come and sit with me, OK? I’ll introduce you to some of the others. Dave’s going to lead a singing session later, they’re sometimes fun. Promise, OK?’
Ben nodded.
‘You should probably try and call home while the phone lines are still up. Looks like we’re going to be here for a while.’
As she went, the Box played faintly on in his head, half-hearted, as if it knew it had been beaten.
It was evening before he saw the demons again, having spent the afternoon with Lucy and the druids. At first he had kept quiet, but Lucy had kept encouraging him to join in, and by the time evening came he was enjoying himself so much that he was secretly disappointed when the fading light forced them to bed.
When he got back to the corner, he found his clothes – which he had left sodden on the back of a chair – completely dry and neatly folded in a pile. They were sat on top of a blanket that had not been there when he left.
‘Me and ol’ Creaky liberated that from Tegwyn for you. He was stockpiling all the best blankets so we waited until the caterwauling started and got you one,’ said Kartofel. His flame was burning brighter than ever, and it lit the dark corner up enough for Ben to be able to see that Djinn and Orff were also looking like their old selves. ‘Managed to dry your clothes as well, now that I’m firing on all cylinders again.’
‘I folded them,’ said Orff. ‘Despite my rheumatism.’
‘Have you been waiting over here all this time? On your own?’ said Ben.
‘Yeah, so? We’re big boys, you know,’ said Kartofel. ‘We don’t need you to amuse ourselves.’
‘What Kartofel is trying to say,’ said Orff, ‘is that we saw you were having such an enjoyable time that we thought we would leave you to it.’ The shine had returned to his eyes, and he was no longer blind, though he did mutter. ‘Don’t you worry about the cataracts I’m probably developing as we speak.’
‘Ben! You should see the kitchen! It’s massive!’ said Djinn, who had turned the colour of dirty sea water. ‘And there’s all this food, and its all ruined anyway, so it doesn’t matter if I ruin it! It smells a bit salty though. But that’s fine. I like salt.’
‘It’s absolutely wrecked down there,’ said Kartofel. ‘It’s amazing. I saw a shark.’
‘There aren’t any sharks in Towyn,’ said Ben.
‘I didn’t say it was a real shark. It came off the wall, and now it’s floating in the middle of the bar. I pulled it under the water and paddled around a bit. You should have seen Fatso’s face.’
‘I’m glad you’re all feeling better,’ said Ben, and he was surprised to realize that he meant it. ‘Thanks for the blanket. And my clothes.’ He hunkered down on the floor, and pulled the blanket around him. He lay his head down, and yawned. ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow, OK?’
‘Goodnight, Ben,’ said Djinn.
‘Goodnight, Djinn.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Orff.
‘G’night.’
‘Don’t have any really graphic nightmares about drowning or anything,’ said Kartofel.
Orff coughed.
‘Tch. I mean “goodnight”,’ said Kartofel.
Ben did not reply. He was already fast asleep.
It was days before they were finally evacuated, and they were among the best of Ben’s life. The druids were all very strange, but they were also a lot of fun, and Ben loved being in their company. He got closer to Lucy, too, who told him all about their brand of druidism, and asked him loads more questions about Warmonger. He even started to enjoy the demons’ antics. Particularly when they teamed up to annoy Tegwyn.
When they finally left, it was through the window rather than the front door, winched down to a waiting lifeboat to be taken to a community centre on the dry side of town. On the way there they got to see the extent of the flooding. There were more boats on the streets than cars, and most houses they passed were abandoned. The only other people they saw were journalists, who had swarmed into the area like mosquitoes. They were even filmed as they docked at the community centre.
Ben’s grandparents were waiting for them. Ben leaped out of the boat, excited to introduce them to his new friend, his first one ever. But as he ran towards them, he did not get the welcome he expected. They both looked tired, and sombre, and his grandmother looked so much older than she had on Sunday night. They must have been so worried, he thought, and started to feel a little guilty for all the fun he’d been having. He bounded up to his grandmother and wrapped his arms around her.
She started to sob. She seemed so frail that he relaxed his grip a little. He looked to his grandad, who stepped in to separate them.
‘We need to go inside, Ben,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some bad news.’
As he was led away from the main hall and into a small side office, the Box played an insidious, spidery little tune.
In the end it was his grandad who told him. Every time his grandmother tried, the tears would start and the words would stop. When he had finished, his grandad sat back in the overused plastic chair, his arms dangling down by his sides like a boxer between rounds in a fight he knows he has already lost.
Ben sat perfectly still, staring at his grandparents. They were on one side of the desk, he on the other.
Nobody spoke.
Maybe if nobody spoke, it wouldn’t be true.
His grandmother began to sob again, and in her grief shuffled round the desk on her knees. She pawed at his hair, and tried to wrap his head in her arms. Ben knew he was supposed to be feeling something other than embarrassment, but nothing came.
‘I want to be on my own, Gran.’ The words tumbled out of his mouth.
She stopped snivelling. ‘Pardon?’
‘I need to be on my own.’
She buried her head in his shoulder, weeping. His grandad rose, gently draped his arms around her, and ushered her out of the room.
It still hadn’t sunk in. He heard the lid of the Box swing open, and Orff popped his head out of the satchel, blinking at the new surroundings.
‘I think I might have malaria.’
Ben could not make sense of what his grandad had told him, could not understand how it could be right. He shook his head.
‘Ben?’ said Orff. The lid opened again, and Kartofel and Djinn burst out.
‘What’s going on?’ said Djinn. ‘Is Ben OK?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Orff.
‘Perhaps he’s been possessed or something,’ said Kartofel. ‘We’ve not had any weird stuff happen to us for a few days, so we’re probably due.’
There was a timid knock at the door, and when Ben did not answer it was followed by a meek turn of the handle. It inched open, and Lucy stuck her head through.
‘I wondered where you were hiding,’ she said. ‘Someone said they saw you come in here. When am I going to meet your gran then?’
Ben slowly turned his head to face her. A little half-sob escaped his throat.
‘What is it?’ she said, pulling a chair round to his side of the table. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘It’s my mum,’ he said. He opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find the words, not quite believing them himself. ‘She’s gone. She died. On Tuesday night.’
The noise he made next was barely human, dredged up from deep inside him. It continued even as Lucy put her arm round him and drew him close.
The funeral was held at the end of March, delayed by both the floods and the inquest. Ben’s grandmother had insisted on a Catholic burial, with accompanying Mass, because ‘it was what Mary Rose would have wanted’.
The huge church was cold and draughty, lacking as it was in congregation: the funeral party consisted of Ben, his grandparents, Lucy, and Pat. Ben’s grandmother held his hand tightly throughout, sometimes squeezing so hard that it hurt his fingers. As the decrepit Irish priest mumbled his way through the service, Lucy leaned forward and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
They were met at the church door by the demons, who were lined up to form a guard of honour. Djinn and Orff had their heads bowed, and Kartofel – who lacked the necessary joints to bow – had toned his flame down for the occasion. Ben felt a lump form in his throat at the sight of them.
There was no wake, much to Pat’s disappointment. She had made a great show of how upset she was, complete with handkerchief eye-dabbing, and kept saying what a beautiful and fitting service it had been (the only word of it Ben had understood was ‘Amen’). It was only after the third or fourth ‘thanks for coming’ that she got the message and flounced off, disappointed that there would be no cake.
The cemetery was quiet. They were the only living souls there.
The demons were present at the graveside, but they did not cause trouble. They observed the silences, and they paid their respects, just like the rest of the family. As the coffin was lowered into the grave, it struck Ben that for better or worse that is what they were. Family.
As they walked back to the car, Ben noticed that they were no longer alone. A veiled woman, dressed entirely in black, was kneeling at a moss-covered memorial. They walked past in silence, her whispered prayers the only sound.
Ben stopped. She was speaking a language both completely familiar and utterly alien to him. The language of the angels. He turned to look, and as he did the woman rose from the gravestone and walked away.
‘I think I need a moment on my own before we go,’ he said.
Ben’s grandmother looked to his grandad, and then nodded. Lucy stepped forward, and took his hand.
‘Take your time,’ she said.
‘I will. Thanks for coming. I didn’t have anyone else to ask and—’
Lucy put a finger to his lips. ‘That’s what friends are for. We’ll see you back at the car.’
Ben waited until they were far enough away, and then headed after the woman.
‘Where are we going?’ said Djinn.
‘That woman,’ said Ben. ‘She was speaking the angel language.’
‘Oh well, let’s follow her, then. Following angels has worked really well for us so far,’ said Kartofel.
‘We’re going after her whether you like it or not,’ said Ben. ‘You can walk, or you can go in the Box. It’s up to you.’
‘All right, all right. Touchy.’
They stalked through the plots after the woman in black, down a tree-lined grass path to the far end of the cemetery. Once they were close enough, Ben reached out a hand to tap her on the shoulder. She spun round, still whispering. Two massive wings unfurled from inside her robe as if they were on springs.
‘It is you,’ said Ben.
‘Great,’ said Kartofel. ‘Another heavenly halfwit.’
The Castellan of the Veil spat out a few words in a sudden rush of intensity. A gust of wind whipped across the graveyard, sending Kartofel tumbling backwards into a headstone.
‘All right, keep your halo on,’ he said.
‘We are sorry for your loss,’ said The Seraph. He still bore the scars of Llety’r Filiast, and his wings were frayed at the edges, but he looked much healthier than he had in Veil Towyn. He was flanked by the rest of the Cult of the Four Winds. ‘And we are also sorry to be coming to you today, of all days, but it is time. You must come with us.’
The Seraph held out his good hand. Ben looked from the demons, the sorry ragtag band that had been following him around all his life, to the imposing majesty of the Cult of the Four Winds, and back again.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’
The Seraph’s eyes flicked over to The Triumph.
‘Why are we even asking him?’ said The Archivist. ‘We are celestial. We should just snatch him up where he stands.’
‘That is not the way we do things,’ said The Seraph. ‘We have discussed this.’
‘I grow tired of kowtowing to the boy when everything is at stake.’
‘It is because of him that everything is still possible,’ said The Seraph. ‘Ben, this is the last thing we will ask. It is the best chance for us to prevent The Adversary from unleashing the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Don’t you want to help? Don’t you want to be free?’
Ben shook his head. ‘The Adversary hasn’t bothered me since the Orme. But every time you get involved, it just makes things worse. I was better off before, when it was just me and my demons and my mum was still alive. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I don’t want to go back in the Box, and I don’t want to cause any more damage. Do you know how many houses were destroyed in the flood?’
‘Two thousand seven hundred and eighty-four,’ said The Archivist without missing a beat. ‘It is nothing compared to the enormity of what we are trying to achieve. It is not such a big number.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Nothing will go wrong this time,’ said The Seraph. ‘We will take you to the nearest sacred place, somewhere the Box lay hidden for centuries. It is a fortress from where we will be able to resist any attack, even if The Adversary sends legions of demons. This is our last chance.’
‘I can’t. Not today. I’m sorry.’
The Archivist clicked his tongue. ‘He is just like his mother. A coward.’
‘Hold your tongue,’ said The Seraph.
‘What did you say about my mum?’ Ben squared up to The Archivist, jutting his chest out and tilting his head up.
‘Only the truth. If you were all she had to be proud of, it is little wonder she resorted to the highest blasphemy.’
Ben launched himself at the angel, hammering punches on to his hard chest. The Archivist laughed, and swatted Ben away with a flick of his hand.
‘That’s enough,’ said The Seraph. ‘Forgive The Archivist of the End Times, Ben. He will be dealt with later.’
‘Today, I want to be with my family,’ said Ben. He looked at the demons. ‘All of them.’
Djinn clapped his hands in joy, and wisped himself once round the gathering. The Seraph sighed. ‘Then we have no choice. I wish it did not have to be this way.’
He raised his arm as if he was about to take an oath, and then let it fall. The Castellan of the Veil’s voice increased in volume, and the celestial words became clearer, more distinct.
The Box cut out completely, and Ben’s vision blurred. The blue and purple colours of the Veil spread across his eyes like ink shot out into water.
Four gusts of wind swept in from each of the points of the compass. Air whirled around them, and Ben felt himself lifted off his feet. He tried to struggle, but the gusts kept him immobile: all he could do was shout pointlessly into the winds until he dropped, gasping, on to the grass, the strange colours of the Veil slowly receding.
Twenty minutes after Ben had left, with his grandfather barely able to hide his impatience, Lucy went to look for him. She walked through the same archway of trees that Ben had disappeared down, but as she got further down the path, and the memorials became progressively less loved, she thought that it was a strange route to take. If anything, it was away from his mother’s plot.
As she trod through the overgrown area, she did not notice the folded and flat patch of grass that had not been there twenty-five minutes ago. She walked straight through it, and on to the very rear of the grounds, before making a wide circle back towards the spot where she had left Ben’s grandparents.
The cemetery was deserted. Ben was nowhere to be found.