Mark Chadbourn - World's end

"They're bad, then?" Church asked facetiously. Tom's expression gave him all the answer he needed.

"How many more things are there going to be?" Ruth fidgeted with her glass, slopping vodka and tonic on to the table. "This afternoon I was followed by a woman, only she wasn't, she was something more, pretending to be a woman. She kept changing age. There was no sense of threat, but … It was me she wanted. To do something for her. What's that all about?"

Church took a long draught of his Guinness while he thought. "Is this how it's going to be from now on?"

"I think it probably is," Tom replied dismally.

"I suppose only a few people have seen them so far," Ruth mused. "But what will the response be when it becomes so widespread that everyone realises what's going on?"

"Chaos. The kind of supernatural fear you used to get in medieval times," Church said.

"What bothers me is the intelligence behind it," Ruth said. "What do these things want?"

"At the moment most of them seem to want you and me wiped off the face of the earth," Church said. "And that's another thing. A lot of effort is being expended on two people who aren't very much of a threat. Why should they be even bothering to hunt us down because we know something-and not much at that-when it's bound to become common knowledge sooner or later? Christ, I'm surprised it's not all over the media now after a big, scaly monster blitzed the M4!"

"It's not-I checked," Ruth said. "I can't understand why nothing's appeared-you'd have thought the Sun at least would have gone for dragons tearing up the motorway, wouldn't you?"

Church turned to Tom. "Well? You're the man with all the answers."

"I wish I was the man with all the answers." Tom cupped his cider with both hands and stared into its depths.

The pub had started to fill up quickly, but they still felt alone in their gloomy corner. "Should we be sitting here?" Ruth asked. "If those bloodsuckers that took a bite out of you are on their way, shouldn't we be hitting the road again?"

"We haven't heard what Laura has to say yet!" Church protested. "We can't just keep running until we hit the sea."

"The Baobhan Sith are supposed to have little intelligence or guile. They're more like animals, I suppose … hunting dogs … point them in the right direction and they'll bring you down. But it's possible to hide from them."

"And you're basing this knowledge on, what?" Church said sharply. "Some old fairytale you read? There might be some truths in the folklore and legends and myths, but we can't take them as gospel. People add bits to spice them up. Take things out. Mis-tell them."

"And what do you suggest we do?" Tom snapped.

"Okay, we should calm down." Ruth raised her hands between them. "Same team and all that. I vote we sleep together tonight and take it in turns to keep watch. You're right, we need to check out what that Laura woman has to say and we've only got to get through the night."

They agreed, but before they could return to their drinks, Ruth turned to Church and asked, "And what did you see?"

"A black dog, but like no-"

Tom froze with his glass halfway to his lips. "My God," he said in a thin voice.

As Church related what had happened that afternoon in the cathedral cloisters, Tom's face grew darker. "Black Shuck," he said when Church had finished. "The Devil Dog. I hoped it would just be the Baobhan Sith-"

"What is it?" Ruth said.

"A demon, some claim. And the precursor of something far worse. It was here long before the first settlement was hacked out, trailing disaster in its wake. I remember once, in Scotland, lying awake one night listening to its awful howling above the raging of the worst storm of the year, and I knew some poor bastard was about to die horribly." Tom took a deep swig of his cider. "Before you encountered it, or just after, did you see something-like a shadow flitting across your vision, or a misty figure passing nearby?"

Church nodded. "In the cathedral. It seemed to be watching."

Tom took a breath and said, "Black Shuck marks the way for the Grey Walker. The Erl-King, the leader of the Wild Hunt."

Church stared into his Guinness, recalling a snippet from the reading he had done for a strand of his degree. "The hunt that hounds lost souls to damnation."

There was a commotion at the bar as a tall, thin man with swept-back silver hair and a hollow face was berated by a group of drinkers. He was smiling obsequiously, but one woman seemed on the verge of attacking him.

Ruth raised her glass. "Here's to the end of the world."

"Now there's a toast to which one can really drink." The silver-haired man had slid up behind her, clutching the dregs of a half-pint. His broad smile revealed a gap between his middle teeth, which were stained with nicotine. His black suit had the grey sheen of overuse, but it was offset with a red brocade waistcoat. His boots were dusty and worn; the smell of the road came off him, of muddy verges and damp hedges, a hint of sweat and the bloom of being caught in too many downpours. Despite the colour of his hair, he couldn't have been more than forty-five. Tom eyed him suspiciously; Church finished his drink.

"Knock it all down and start again, I say. Deconstruction before reconstruction." He raised his glass heartily. "Cheers!" Ruth smiled in return, and the man gave her a wink.

Church picked up his empty glass and offered the others a refill with a nod. As he turned towards the bar, the silver-haired man quickly drained his glass and held it out. "As you're going, old boy, do me a favour and fill this up. I'll get the next one in."

A sarcastic comment at the stranger's audacity sprang to Church's lips, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. Grudgingly, he snatched the glass as he passed.

"Cider, please," the man said, slipping into Church's seat. "And thank you kindly." He turned to Ruth and took her hand. "Charmed to meet you, my dear. I have many names, though the one I like the most is Callow. I hope you don't mind me resting my old bones. It's been a long day's travelling. The romance of the open road is a fine thing, but no one talks about the exhaustion at the end of the day."

"Where are you going?" Ruth asked politely.

Callow laughed. "Oh, from here to there and back again. There's too much to see on this beautiful, beautiful island of ours to be resting in one place for too long. I've done all that, you see. Worn a strangling tie in an office prison, filed the papers, counted the paper clips, watched the clock mark the passing of my life. Slow death for a poor wage. But how much could they pay you to make it worth dying? One needs to hear oneself think. In the words of Longfellow, `Not in the clamour of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.' And if you can't find a reason for being in one place, or even for being, then you have to look elsewhere."

"I know what you're saying." Ruth was entertained by his attitude. It was an act he had obviously perfected over time, a mix of music hall comedian and slightly fey theatre ham. If it managed to get him a few free drinks, who was she to judge?

"Ah, a kindred spirit. And have you broken the shackles of mundanity for the life of quicksilver heels?"

"We're just touring around," Tom interjected coldly before Ruth could answer.

Callow reached across the table. "Pleased to meet you." He nodded towards the badges on Tom's holdall at the edge of the table. "A veteran of the road too, I see. Ah, the Isle of Wight Festival. I remember it well. Hendrix played guitar like an angel. And Glastonbury, so many weeks there in the summer. The mud! You must remember the mud! Terrible. But fun. If you know what I mean. The Stonehenge Free Festivals too! Ah, how I miss them. The Battle of the Beanfield. I was there, I was there. Took a truncheon from a stormtrooper in blue. Saved some poor young girl from getting her head stove in." He shook his head sadly. "Ah me, the end of the world. And not a day too soon."