Marc Chadbourn - The Devil in green

'You know it?' the Caretaker said.

'I know it.' Mallory's voice broke.

'There is no more running,' the Caretaker said. 'Go to it.'

His legs felt like stone, but somehow he found himself walking towards it; he knew with a sickening fatalism that there was no escape from something like that.

The figure stood, unmoving, arms at its sides, its features lost in the thick shadows of the hood. Mallory approached it as if walking to the gallows, unaware of the movement of his legs, the sound of the crunching snow, the cold wind against his face.

He stopped in front of it. A shiver that was not from the cold ran through him. He was in a daze, lost to the sucking shadows that covered its face; but his subconscious knew exactly what he had to do. Trembling, he slowly brought his hands up to grip the hood. Then he pushed it back.

It was his face, a true face, an inner face, ashen, with black, black eyes that looked at him as if it was pleading with him to put it out of its misery. But it was not him, just a spirit of place that had taken on a sense of him; an echo; a reminder. He couldn't outrun it, couldn't ever leave it behind.

Hot tears burned paths down Mallory's cheeks. Here it was, then.

Over to his right there was a sound like thunder and the stone door with the carved surround stood there incongruously in the snow with no walls to support it. Lightning danced around its edges; the thunder rolled out from it repeatedly.

One more door to pass through.

It was dark and he had a gun. He hated guns, but really, he had no choice. The barrel bit into his temple. How do you do these things? he thought. No one ever tells you, so you go with the movie version. What's to stop you ending up like one of those freaks they used to feature in the Sunday Sport, with half their face missing, not able to talk, but with their brain as active as ever. Wouldn't that be hell? But what did he care about hell? It didn't exist. No hell, no heaven, nowhere better and you couldn't get much worse, no chance to put things right, no going back, and now no going forwards.

But Sylvie would get the money and Jemas would get everything he needed to do Stevens. That was the best he could do, and it didn't come anywhere near to wiping out the debt of what he had done. But it was the best he could do, and he had no choice. He pulled the trigger.

The burst of fire was like the breath of a Fabulous Beast in the dark, filled with purifying flame. It imprinted on his mind and there it was, high over the city, high over London, destroying the Tower of London, destroying all the corruption and the filth and everything that was bad about this life. And you know, he thought, it looks like a better world.

'Take my hand.'

The Caretaker gripped Mallory's wrists tightly; all around was darkness. 'You have a choice,' he intoned gravely.

Mallory didn't have to think. 'I want Sophie… I want a chance to put things right… to be who I could be. I want a better world.' The Caretaker nodded slowly. 'Very well.'

He breathed a lung-full of cold air as if it was the first breath he had ever taken. Every sense was heightened: the snow so bright it was almost blinding, the dazzling colours in the dawn sky, the smell of woodsmoke on the wind; and the crunch of snow behind him, like explosions drawing nearer. He whirled, sword singing as it leaped from the sheath; the blue glow from the blade gave him comfort, helped to focus his mind.

The Hipgrave-thing swept across the lawns from the cathedral like fury, like rage and hate and bitterness. Mallory saw eyes and teeth and wings and claws. He swung the sword with the full force of his strength, felt the vibrations slam into his shoulders as the weapon smashed into the monstrous force. The blade bit deep but didn't slow the thing's progress.

It powered into Mallory, sent him flying head over heels. He skidded in the snow, rolled and came up on his feet, winded and dazed but still ready.

This time he side-stepped and struck at the same time. A chunk of something flew through the air and landed in the snow, sizzling.

Teeth-rattling sounds were coming off the Hipgrave-thing, screeches that flew off the register and deep bass rumbles, each one triggering a specific emotion — fear and horror and despair. Mallory fought them down, hacked again.

With each strike, the thing became even more furious, its reactions faster, its strength greater; it was obvious to Mallory that he couldn't beat it, couldn't even hold it back for much longer.

On the next sweep, it was impossible to get out of the way. He felt a rib snap; pain flared up one side. He flew backwards, crashed to the ground, lost consciousness.

When he awoke, the Hipgrave-thing was rising above him like a tidal wave of oil. A bone-numbing cold radiated out over him.

Mallory turned his head and yelled to Sophie, who was watching, horrified. 'Call him!'

She realised instantly what he meant, though the panic that crossed her face showed that she knew it was already too late. She bowed her head, began to mutter.

Mallory fumbled for the sword and held it ready to ram into the thing when it came down, hoping he could do at least some damage, to save Sophie with his dying stroke.

The crash of the gates falling signified that Sophie didn't have to call out; the powers had been watching. The Hipgrave-thing was wavering, distracted, as if it sensed something Mallory couldn't. Through the broken gates came a tremendous flood of bodies: the pale-skinned, black-eyed army of little people, moving hastily as if fearful of the coming light, and like a stallion amongst them was Old Shuck with its gleaming red eyes.

The Hipgrave-thing pulled away from Mallory, who was now the lesser threat. Its attention was fixed on Old Shuck, which had broken away from the swarming little people and was moving ominously towards Mallory.

Everything was like a dream, hazy, fractured, sometimes moving too fast, sometimes in slow motion. The little people appeared to be scattering something across the cathedral compound. Soon after, there was a rumbling in the ground as of some great beast stirring. Green shoots burst through the snow, sprouted, prospered, became creeping strands of ivy, saplings, bushes, flowers. The ivy soared up the walls of the cathedral, beginning to smother the lower storeys of the other buildings.

The Hipgrave-thing was hypnotised by the activity. Mallory saw his moment. Despite the pain flooding his side, he pulled himself to his feet and moved behind the creature. With the last of his energy, he heaved the sword over his head and thrust it so hard into the thing's back it burst out through its chest.

It trembled for a moment, the sensations taking their time to reach whatever passed for a mind within it. Then it crashed to the ground like a falling tree. It was clear that even then Mallory had not delivered a killing stroke, for it writhed and thrashed, screeching insanely.

Mallory scrambled backwards, found Sophie, her arms going around him easily. He dropped down into her lap, watching what would happen next, too weak to play any part.

Old Shuck advanced until it was close to the Hipgrave-thing. It bent forwards, peering with those flaming eyes as though it could see into the creature's head. Mallory had a sense that on some level communication was taking place. Whatever had happened, the Hipgrave-thing slowed its wild movements as though sedated.

The little people swarmed around, lashing ropes with the thickness and strength of wire across the beast. Within minutes, it was completely caught. The strain of the ropes was taken by a hundred small hands, and with great effort, the Hipgrave-thing was hauled gradually towards the gates, Old Shuck keeping pace, never taking its red eyes away. Left behind in the snow was a desiccated husk that had once been Hipgrave; and it was missing one hand.