Mark Chadbourn - Darkest hour

He switched off the phone and lit a cigarette before lowering his overweight frame into the frayed armchair he had made his own. He felt a triumphant burst, that he'd got one over on his lefty, Paki-loving stepson who thought he was so fucking superior. But Mick had seen him sneak the suitcase out and store it in the boot of his old banger. He knew what the little shit was planning.

He closed his eyes and sucked deeply on the cigarette, enjoying the moment and the certain knowledge that a blow had been struck against the fucking multicultural society. But when he opened his eyes a moment later he was almost paralysed by shock. Through the window he could see something moving rapidly across the lawn from the bottom of the garden. He couldn't tell what it was-its shape seemed to be changing continuously and his eyes hurt from trying to pin it down-but it was horrible. The scream started deep in his throat, but it hadn't reached his mouth before the window had imploded, showering glass all around him. And then it was on him.

Maureen and Kelly returned from the local five minutes later. They tiptoed through the front door, just in case Mick was dozing after a few pints. They'd both pay the price if they woke him. But the moment she was across the threshold, Maureen had the odd feeling something was wrong. There was a strained atmosphere, like just before a storm, and an odd smell was drifting in the air. While Kelly went to the bathroom she crept into the lounge to investigate.

The first thing she saw was the broken window and felt the glass crunching underfoot. Her mind started to roll: burglars; some of those shabby youths who didn't like Mick's little club.

And then she looked into Mick's armchair and at first didn't recognise what she was seeing. It was black and smoking and resembled nothing more than a sculpture made out of charcoal. A sculpture of a man. And then she looked closer and saw what it really was, and wondered why the armchair hadn't burst into flames as well, and wondered a million and one other things all at once.

And then she screamed.

"I don't believe we did it!" Lee was bouncing up and down with excitement in his seat as the car pulled on to the M6 heading south.

"Well, your fairy told us, didn't he?" Sunita said with a giggle.

He gave her thigh a tight squeeze. "This is about us now. We can do anything we want. We can really enjoy ourselves, just the two of us. God, I love you!"

She smiled and blew him a kiss. "Things are strange right now, aren't they?" she said dreamily as she stared out of the passenger window into the night. "People seeing all those weird things. You and the fairies. Uncle Mohammed having those dreams that came true."

"Maybe it's a sign."

"Of what?"

"I don't know. Of hope. That things are going to get better."

She shook her head, her smile not even touching on the endless happiness she felt. "You're a hopeless romantic."

And the road opened up before them.

Smoke still billowed up from the ruins of the Kyle of Lochalsh across the water, sweeping a curtain of grey across the bright moon. Here and there small fires continued to burn like Will-o'-the-Wisps. The night was thick with the reek of devastation and despair, the smell of a world winding down.

Jack Churchill, known to his friends as Church, sat on the sea wall at Kyleakin next to Laura DuSantiago, and together they surveyed what little of the carnage they could make out on the mainland. It provided an odd counterpoint to the tranquillity that came from the gently lapping waves and the wind which blew through the deserted village. They were both exhausted after the nerve-racking journey across Skye in an abandoned car they had found in Kil- muir. The oppressively claustrophobic atmosphere was brought down by their fears of an ambush at every bend in the road, and magnified by the eerie stillness of the surrounding countryside, devoid of any sign of human life; it had been eradicated as easily and completely as a germ culture on a microscope slide. Nor were there any bodies; whatever the Fomorii had done with the former inhabitants did not bear considering. By the time they reached Kyleakin they had to accept that the Fomorii had deemed them too small a threat to pursue them any longer, and somehow that was even more jarring than the constant fear of attack. They were worthless.

"Well, it could be worse." Laura brushed a stray strand of dyed-blonde hair out of her eyes as she shuffled into a more comfortable position on the wall.

Church, his dark hair emphasising the paleness of his wearied face, looked at her askance. "How could it possibly be worse?"

"We could be going to work tomorrow."

She kept her gaze fixed firmly across the water, but Church had learned to read the humour in her deadpan expression. Their relationship, if that was what it was, still surprised him. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about her. On the surface they had nothing in common, but deep down it seemed that something had clicked; after so long in the emotional ice-field following Marianne's death it felt good to reconnect with another human being, and the sex had been great. He hoped it was more than a simple alliance forged through the desperation of terrifying times, but there was no point losing sleep analysing it; it would find its own level soon enough, he was sure of it. Cautiously he reached out and took her hand. She was so unpredictable he half-expected her to snatch it away and accuse him of being a romantic idiot, but her fingers closed around his, cool and comforting.

"Do you think the others have forgiven me for screwing up so badly?" he asked. The notion drove a pang of guilt through him.

"They didn't give it a second thought. They might look like morons, but they can see you're all right. For a dickhead. And let's face it, you only acted like a human being. One who doesn't tell his friends anything, but a human being nonetheless. Who's going to fault you for that?"

Despite her words, Church couldn't stop the guilt growing stronger. The Tuatha De Danann had been right in their brutal assessment of his worth; it was his own weaknesses that had dragged them down. If he had told the others about the visitations of Marianne's spirit, about the Kiss of Frost that had corrupted him and brought about the Danann's contempt, the world might have been saved.

"Did you ever hear Beyond the Sea?" he asked, staring into the chopping black waves.

"Is that by one of those dead, old white guys you enjoy so much? Some Sinatra shit?"

"Bobby Darin." He didn't rise to the bait. "It's the best metaphor for death I've ever heard. Just a simple little song, but when you think about it in those terms it becomes almost profound." He sang a few bars: "Somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me, my lover stands on golden sands. So sad, but so optimistic. I'd never really thought about it like that until just now, you know, about it talking about what lies beyond death-"

"Or it could just be a simple little song." The comment would normally have been concluded with some note of mockery or contempt, but when none came he turned to look at her. Laura's face was still and thoughtful, and when she spoke again her voice was uncommonly hesitant. "How do you feel?"

"What do you mean?"

"All that stuff floating around inside…" She was skating around the edge of an issue that was so monumental it was almost impossible to put it into perspective.

"I feel okay, under the circumstances. Different, though I'm not sure how. Sometimes I get a wave of cold when the Fomorii corruption seems to get the upper hand. Sometimes I feel like I've got liquid gold in my veins, thanks to whatever the Danann did to me. The rest of the time I just feel like me."