Mark Chadbourn - The Burning Man

Outside in the street, police sirens blared past.

‘All that slaughter he carried out as he moved through time — how could I do that? It’s all got to be inside me, somewhere. Is the Pendragon Spirit just a lie?’

‘Nothing is written, Church. You know that. Time does not exist. Reality is not fixed. These concepts are all just illusions we create so our poor human brains can cope with what is out there. Remember, reality changes, like the globe that Dian Cecht showed you in the Court of the Final Word. Put pressure on one point and another part shifts to accommodate it.’

Another police car sped by.

‘Matter cannot be destroyed,’ Shavi continued. ‘Nor can energy, which is why no one ever really dies. It all just reforms in endless new shapes. Whatever you were shown, you can change it.’

‘I wish I could have your faith.’

‘I told you — that is why I am here, so you do not have to.’ Shavi followed Church’s gaze to Tom at the bar. ‘Why did you wait until Tom had gone to tell me about the Libertarian?’

‘He’s getting back his old flashes of the future. Why didn’t he say anything about me becoming the Libertarian?’

‘Because he is protecting you as he always has, from the moment you met. He is the best friend you could ever hope for.’

Church watched Tom wind his way back through the drinkers, just another sixties burn-out mourning Jerry Garcia, no sign of all the scars he kept assiduously hidden away.

‘Yeah, I’m a useless friend, aren’t I? One day I’ll get over this whole self-obsessed thing.’

‘I think we are all allowed one flaw.’

Church took his drink from Tom and raised his glass. ‘Here we go, then: no happy endings!’

They all drank to it.

‘It’s a big city. How are we supposed to find the Second Key before Veitch?’ Church stood outside McSorley’s looking uptown. ‘He could already have him.’

‘I think we would know,’ Tom replied. ‘Probably from the hell-fire raining all around.’

‘No luck with the ring?’

Tom twisted the gold ring around his finger, bitterness darkening his expression. ‘Next to useless here. I think it’s because we’re not exactly sure what our heart’s desire is,’ he added pointedly. ‘Is it me or is it cold?’

‘It’s you. You’re old.’

Shavi returned from the alley where he had been attempting to meditate. His frustrated expression gave away his failure. ‘This is the most unspiritual city on Earth. Even with the power of the Blue Fire at its height, I am finding it near-impossible to tap into anything.’

‘We’re lucky it didn’t spit us out of the Blue on the city limits,’ Church said, enjoying the feeling of being slightly drunk.

‘We could always petition whatever gods we have awakened in this Great Dominion,’ Shavi said.

‘I’d steer clear of that lot wherever possible,’ Tom warned.

Not too far away, the police sirens had congregated. The drone made Church’s head ache. ‘I wish this Mundane Spell would shatter once and for all.’

‘It’s the disguise the Void wears,’ Tom said. ‘It’ll hold on to it until there’s no hope of maintaining the illusion.’

‘And then?’

‘Then the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders will come out and take everything apart so they can start all over again.’

Shavi tugged on Church’s sleeve. ‘Look at that.’

Amongst the tall buildings, the Morvren swooped as if with one mind.

‘A portent,’ Church said. ‘Bad times ahead. As if we didn’t know.’

‘No,’ Shavi insisted. ‘They are moving differently this time. Do you see?’

The birds always appeared to have an eerie intelligence, but now they were acting with an out-of-character singular purpose. Fleeting shapes appeared in the apparently random pattern of their flight. After a moment, Church began to see them more clearly.

‘Is that a key?’ Shavi said.

‘And an arrow,’ Tom added.

‘They are trying to guide us,’ Shavi exclaimed.

‘I don’t get it,’ Church said. ‘They’ve never done anything like this before. Why now?’

Despite his doubts, Church allowed himself to be persuaded by Shavi and Tom, who both argued that they had no other lead. They made their way towards the Bowery. The police sirens had died but there was still activity all around, cars driving too fast, people running, glancing over their shoulders, others talking intensely into mobile phones.

High above the cityscape, Church got a fleeting impression of a burning figure in the sky, but it was lost to the lights and the looming buildings. Before he had time to consider what he had seen, tyres screeched as a Lexus swerved across the road and mounted the kerb next to them. Two men in casual suits were out before the engine had died. Both had guns. One held out a police badge. He had an acne-pitted face and thin ginger hair.

‘Stay where you are.’ He identified Church as the main threat. ‘These the ones?’ he asked his partner.

An African-American, almost too tall to fit in the car, checked his BlackBerry, glancing up and down a couple of times before grunting, ‘Sure looks like it.’

‘Whatever you think we’ve done-’ Church began.

‘You just opened your mouth,’ the ginger-haired one said with faux incredulity. ‘I wouldn’t do it again. Turn around.’

As handcuffs were snapped on, the other detective radioed for support and ended his conversation with a hearty, ‘No shit!’

Turning to his partner, he said, ‘Eddie, you are not going to believe this.’

‘I believe everything you say, Detective Brinks. You’re my mom, my priest and Superman, all rolled into one.’

‘Deakins ran their faces through SEISINT. Got a match with Homeland Security. Two of these squirrels-’ he indicated Church and Shavi ‘-are on Global Red Status from British Intelligence.’

Eddie looked Church up and down. ‘Now isn’t that something. They’re going to have to build a whole new wing to keep you guys safe. Terrorists and cannibals.’

The holding cell was starkly lit and smelled of ammonia. Church felt like a gorilla in a zoo as various men and women in suits cast a cursory, puzzled eye over him before moving away, deep in hushed conversation. Every protest, every request, every comment he made was ignored. His visitors gave no sign that they even heard him speaking.

After three hours he was led to an interview room with a single table, two chairs and a mirror along one wall. The two detectives waited for him in shirtsleeves. Church was shown to a seat with a politeness that somehow managed to infer incipient menace.

‘Detectives Nelson and Brinks interviewing suspect Jack Churchill,’ the ginger-haired one announced for the recording. Nelson sat at the table. Brinks remained standing, like a big cat ready to pounce.

Brinks grinned broadly. ‘Tombstone, they call me. I haven’t decided if that’s an unfortunate slur on my size and the colour of my skin, or the destination of the people who annoy me.’

‘Good cop, bad cop is a bit of a cliche,’ Church said.

‘You see, you don’t get to be smart,’ Nelson said calmly. ‘You don’t get to be wry. Or aloof. Or British. You don’t get to pretend you’re a normal person. We’re extending you the courtesy of treating you like one, but we all know you’re not.’

‘Anyway,’ Tombstone noted with a slow nod, ‘we’re bad cop, worse cop. And we have a competition to see how bad we can really get.’

‘Funny,’ Church said.

‘Says the man carrying a sword strapped to his back,’ Nelson said. ‘At least, we think it’s a sword. Seems to be some debate in the Evidence Room. Care to enlighten us?’