Mike Shevdon - The Road to Bedlam

The day was brighter than the four o'clock my watch showed. I held the watch to my ears and it ticked lightly. I looked at it again, making sure I wasn't holding it upside down. Ten o'clock would make more sense. Four o'clock was what it showed. I turned back the duvet, went to the window and peered through the misty glass. The sun was over the hill at the back of the town. It was four in the afternoon. not four in the morning. I had more than slept the clock around and I still felt exhausted.

I opened the window to let in some of the warm air from outside to heat the room, then went into the bathroom and spent a good ten minutes under the shower with the temperature wound round as hot as I could bear it. I never wanted to be cold again. I emerged, pink and steaming, and put on clothes from the previous day.

Once dressed I looked at myself in the mirror. There were dark rings under my eyes and my cheeks looked sunken. No wonder: I was starving. My stomach grumbled at the first thought of food. Before I could feed myself, though, I needed to follow up on the night's work.

Pressing my hand to the mirror, I told it what I wanted.

"Sam Veldon – his mobile phone."

I had discovered the ability to tap into the phone network from something Raffmir and Solandre had done when I had first encountered them. I had then discovered it was also possible to contact mobile phones, even if they were turned off. How the connection worked I had no idea, but it would enable me to cash in a favour I was owed.

Sam's phone was difficult to reach. I lowered the temperature of the room again as I drew in more power for the connection. "Sam Veldon, speak to me."

The line squeaked and chirped, making stuttering chattering noises. Then a broken ring, distorted by poor line quality. It rang eight or nine times before it answered.

"Is someone there?"

It was a strange question from someone who had just answered a phone.

"Sam, you know who this is, right?"

"I can't hear you." The lie in Sam's voice was blatant.

"I know perfectly well you can hear me, Sam Veldon. Now listen…"

"Stupid thing shouldn't work at all." He was addressing someone else. "This whole building is shielded. Here, let me take it outside. When will they get these things right?"

I could hear him moving around. Then his voice came back on. "Give me your number. I'll ring you in five."

"I don't have a number, Sam. I'll call you in three." I released the mirror.

Why were the phones I wanted to call always so difficult?

Having said I would call him in three, I waited four minutes before trying again. This time the call went straight through without problem. It rang once.

"How the hell did you get this number?"

"Good afternoon, Sam. I'm well, thanks. How are you?"

"Scratched to high heaven and sore to boot. What the fuck happened last night?"

"Not quite what you were expecting, was it, Sam?"

"Let's get back to where you got this number from. It's supposed to be unlisted."

"You only think I'm phoning you. This isn't real. The scratches on your arms and the weals around your throat aren't real either. You owe me a favour, Sam Veldon, and I intend to collect."

"This isn't happening."

"I told you that. Do you have the information on my daughter?"

"What am I, fucking Wikipedia?"

"Either you have it or you don't, Sam."

"Stop saying my name. Bloody GCHQ will be monitoring this. I'll lose my job and then no one will have anything."

"Then tell me what I need."

"Tate Britain. One hour. Can you do it?"

"Yes. Why there?"

"Because it's not far and there's something I want to bloody show you, all right?"

"If you're setting me up, Sam, I'm going to leave you up to your neck in grass."

"There's no set-up. Meet me. I'll show you." I could hear the truth in his voice. He was not setting me up, but I would still be cautious.

"One hour. Wait for me." I took my hand from the mirror and dropped the call.

I put on my jacket and checked the pockets, making sure I had the codex, a torch, my wallet and anything else I might need. I unsheathed, wiped and resheathed the sword and then held it until it was a black umbrella. I left the window ajar to air the room; if Raffmir wanted to get in, a window wouldn't stop him, and there was nothing valuable in the room to steal.

Leaving quietly, I found the downstairs rooms silent and empty. Making myself unremarkable, I exited the guest house and turned towards the harbour. Yesterday's rain had been swept away, leaving the sky looking scrubbed. I looked out beyond the harbour where the gulls perched on the bastion watching the tide ebb from the walls to the horizon where the sea melted into the sky. It was a beautiful day, and I had slept through most of it.

I marched across the harbour front and up the hill, past the church and into the narrow streets. Mounting the bank, I climbed up through the tussocks to where the Way-point nestled in the dip near the hill-top. Turning around I saw the town laid out below me, the roofs washed clean and shining in the afternoon light, the distant sound of children playing mixing with the mewling cry of the gulls. In this light, on this day, you could see why people stayed here.

I stepped on to the Way-point and felt it rise beneath me. I launched myself into the flow, letting it sweep me away inland. As I approached the next node, I twisted slightly, letting it slingshot me around to the next point. My heartbeat accelerated as I came to the next node and veered around it south, using the nodes to slalom southwards, reversing the route I had used the previous night to traverse the darkness with the minimum of effort. It was still draining, but it was less tiring than traversing the nodes point by point, one by one. I had Raffmir to thank for that, at least.

As I approached the Way-points around London I began taking them wide, shedding momentum and letting them slow me. Aiming to show some style after Raffmir's remarks the day before. I was shedding momentum as I shimmered into being in the crypt of the Church of St Clement Danes on the Strand in London, and I only stumbled forward slightly. I glanced around, finding no one there to witness my attempt at a graceful landing and grateful at least for that. I gently eased the misdirection around myself, leaving just enough to make me unremarkable so that I could climb the curving stairway to the entry hall and slip out into the evening air. London was noticeably warmer than Yorkshire and I found the jacket suddenly heavy across my shoulders. It held too much to carry it, though.

As I walked past Australia House, I noticed the iron gates barring the door, and found myself rubbing my palm where I had touched them the previous year. Simply touching them had thrown me backwards, leaving a livid burn mark on my hand that had faded slowly, teaching me a valuable lesson about iron and the Feyre. I steered around them, setting a steady pace along the Strand to Trafalgar Square.

Checking my watch, I realised I had enough time for a small diversion, so I strode up the rise past the white portico of St Martin-in-the-Fields and stopped at the coffee shop where Blackbird had taken me and where she first told me about the Feyre and my magical heritage. Thinking about it, somehow it felt like two lives, one ordinary, punctuated by dull commutes and arguments, and one unreal, where at any moment I might lose my home, my daughter or my life. I shook my head and then had to apologise to the young man who served me coffee, while I paid for the drink and for a sandwich I had picked up.

"Are you sure you're OK, Sir?" The young man looked concerned.

"It's fine, thanks. I was just thinking of someone I was with the last time I was in this coffee shop."

He took my money. "I hope it worked out well for you," he said with a smile.