Will Elliott - The Pilgrims

But Eric had only a glimpse before another shape in the doorway obscured the sight. The man who had climbed through reached down and helped up a young woman wearing a grey cloak with a hood obscuring her face. Slung around her back was a longbow on one side, a quiver on the other. A long curved dagger was displayed, hanging from her belt. A third face appeared in the door. The other two helped up a man whose black leather covered his whole body to the neck. His red hair was piled up in a bizarre pointed cone. He was much taller than the others. He peered around the tunnel and laughed, perhaps in nervous excitement, high-pitched and penetrating. ‘Hello, Otherworld!’ he cried.

A fourth figure was at the door: a bald head, huge face, bulging white eyes. He peered around, looking startled, and tried to lunge forwards through the entrance, but the door frame was too narrow. An enormous meaty forearm, glistening with sweat, flopped through the door, the fat hand grasping for purchase. There was no way the huge man would fit; he was too big, even, to be a man. His efforts sent the redhead into gales of squealing laughter.

The first to come through shouted, ‘Get back,’ but the huge man in the doorway kept trying to squeeze in, eyes pleading with the others. The redhead laughed hysterically, raised a boot, and with it gently pushed the massive face back down. He slammed the door shut and peered around the tunnel with a grin. Light from the door’s outline dimmed till it only just illuminated the invaders with flickering white. The noise of wind died down to a quiet that was startling, leaving the sound of the invaders’ feet shuffling and scuffing on the concrete.

The redhead’s insane laughter continued in more muted bursts. ‘Now let’s get busy,’ he said.

The woman spotted the briefcase. She crouched before it, her long curved knife in hand, and poked it.

‘What’s that?’ the redhead demanded, coming over.

‘An object,’ she replied. ‘Though that is just a guess.’

The first man — who kept glancing up the tunnel towards Case’s outline — grabbed the briefcase and shook it, listening.

‘Careful …’ said the woman.

‘Just a box,’ he said. ‘Open it.’

With a touch that seemed delicate she drew the curved blade across the top of the briefcase, then spilled out its contents through the gash in the leather. The other picked up the mobile phone and looked uncomprehendingly at it. He fiddled with it until it switched on, glowing, then dropped it with a yelp.

The redhead’s laughter screeched without shame. ‘Don’t play with magic, you silly man,’ he said, and kicked the phone away.

The shorter man picked up the gun, sniffed it, and tossed it aside. He was more interested in Eric’s newspaper and payslips. He gently put them in a little knapsack he held. ‘They’ll like that,’ he said.

‘Paper? Why’ll they like paper?’ said the redhead.

‘Not the paper, fool. Otherworld writing . They love new languages. What’s this?’ He picked up what must have been one of Case’s old bourbon bottles, and sniffed it. ‘Strong smell. Think it held drink.’ He closely examined the bourbon’s label, stroked it, then put the bottle in his bag too. ‘Let’s go back. The mage won’t be gone long.’

‘We’re not leaving yet,’ said the redhead. ‘Get more stuff. They’ll close this off soon,’ he gestured to the door.

‘Not safe-’

‘Too bad, you little sack of fright! This is a one-off. If they figure out how to shut it, this door will not open again. Plunder, bastard. Plunder.’ He ran towards the newsagency and the other two followed.

‘I’m not scared,’ the shorter man said. ‘Just smarter than you.’

‘Then there’s been some mistake. Because I am leading the raid!’ He cackled like someone possessed as they ran right past Eric. The woman’s steps were light and her gown rippled, the streetlight seeming to fall away from it like water. She threw back her hood and gaped with sheer amazement at the starry sky. The redhead turned on his heel at the street corner, surveying his surrounds. He saw Eric and jumped, startled, the cone of red hair swaying.

Eric swallowed, his heart beating hard. He wondered what to say and could only come up with: ‘Hi.’

The other two spotted him. The shorter man immediately had two long knives drawn, with a little smoke running off the blades as though they were very cold. With very fast hands the woman had an arrow nocked in her bow and pointed at the ground ahead of her. She licked her lips.

The redhead held an arm up. ‘Uh-ah! No you don’t. You don’t just kill people because they’re from the other world. It’s not his fault. He’s going to help us. Aren’t you?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Eric.

‘Is this a tavern?’

‘No, that’s a newsagency.’

‘Hmm!’ The redhead spun about, examined the closed glass door, dark within. ‘And what sort of thing is that? A store?’

‘Yes. Can I ask something? How is it you speak English?’

‘Speak what? Your tongue? We don’t!’

‘I … see.’

‘Now then. Is that wall made of glass?’

Eric nodded.

‘Protected by a spell?’ said the redhead.

‘Far out, you’re for real.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘No spell,’ said Eric. ‘Not to my knowledge.’

The redhead skipped closer to him, lowering his voice to confidential pitch. ‘You’d tell me if it was, wouldn’t you?’

‘Sure! We have no spells here.’

‘Oh? How odd. Your mages must be useless. And very bored. A final question. Are you the store master?’

‘No time for this crap,’ the shorter one snarled.

‘Shoosh, you!’ said the redhead. ‘So, are you?’

‘No,’ said Eric. ‘Help yourselves. And … welcome, I guess!’

‘Thanks!’ The redhead bowed low then ran straight for the large sliding glass doors, the cone of red hair flopping behind him. Shoulder first, he threw himself into it. A big part of it shattered with a cacophony of falling shards. The other two ran in after him, stepping carefully over the broken pieces.

The noise of their rummaging through the dark newsagency seemed to carry a long way. They’d certainly have triggered a silent alarm, which Eric hoped couldn’t be interpreted as a spell. Before long all three emerged with their arms full of blocks of printing paper, newspapers, pens, pencils, rulers, magazines. The redhead’s forehead was cut, but he didn’t seem to care about the blood sheening down his face.

‘Was this junk worth the risks we took?’ said the woman.

‘Hush, you. I don’t need two critics,’ said the redhead. ‘No one knew what we’d find. Could’ve been anything. We got something to trade the groundies, at least. But they’re not getting this.’ He tried to examine a Penthouse , in the process dropping a load of plundered stuff which clattered to the bitumen. Eyes glued on the unfolding pin-up, he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Wow,’ he said.

A train passed over the bridge. All three of them screamed in alarm and scattered away from the tunnel entrance, dropping most of their wares.

‘Wait, relax,’ said Eric. ‘It’s not going to hurt you.’

‘No spells, you fucking pirate!’ roared the redhead, drawing a sword from his belt and charging up the embankment towards the tracks. The shorter man gaped as though dumbstruck by the huge metal demon. The female had an arrow nocked and pointed at Eric’s heart, then evidently decided the train was the more immediate threat. Her shot sailed in a fast arc and skimmed off the metal panel with a flash of sparks. Then the train passed, receding towards the city.

‘Just a train,’ Eric said. ‘Harmless.’