Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

Get the job done. That was in the job description.

At least I should find out what happened to Claire.

I let the milky light fade and then stepped gently onto the Way-node, letting it carry me and ignoring its usually exuberant ride, sliding over nodes to loop back on myself and turn back into London without passing back through St Clement’s Dane. I’d caused enough excitement there for one day.

The journey left me aching, but brought me out in one of the smaller parks, into the gathering dark — the day had slipped past without me. I shifted my glamour to conceal my blood-stained clothes and the cut on my forehead and hailed a taxi, keeping to myself, sitting huddled in the back while we navigated the streets of West London. We cruised to a halt in front of a row of townhouses converted into flats on a side street and I paid the cab-driver, watching him rumble away as I stood beside the road, suddenly chilled by the freezing wind.

Claire Radisson’s mansion flat was rear-facing, but I figured that welcome guests didn’t sneak around the back, they knocked at the front door like civilised people. I laid my hand on the street door and felt the lock tumble and click open. Inside, the smell of disinfectant floor-cleaner was overpowering, but at least the hall was warm. I took the stairway up to the flat, listening to the sound of early evening behind closed doors. At Claire’s door all was silent, but I couldn’t really imagine her watching TV, other than serious current affairs, maybe. I rang the bell, standing back from the door so that she would be able to see me through the security peep. I didn’t imagine she had that many visitors. Her role as Chief Clerk to the Queen’s Remembrancer and the secrecy about the more esoteric aspects of her role did not invite confidences. I knew that she and Sam Veldon had once been together, but my understanding was that was all in the past. I stood in the hallway while the door remained resolutely unanswered. Perhaps she was out buying groceries, or had gone to dinner with a friend. I re-opened the letter from my pocket, scanning her words. I hope to God this reaches you.

I placed my hand on the door, and immediately retracted it. Something was amiss. It felt like unexpectedly touching a snake. I could feel the wrongness in the door. I tried again, feeling for the sense of the door so that I could click the lock open, but as soon as my hand touched the door I was forced to snatch it away.

I tried the bell again and rapped sharply on the door, avoiding touching it for any length of time. “Claire? Are you there? It’s Niall.” There was no sound from within. I glanced down the corridor. If I made much more noise, I might start attracting attention. The last thing I wanted was someone calling the police.

Blackbird had stayed with Claire for a short while when she was pregnant and on the run from the Seventh Court. She’d mentioned that Claire had a rear fire escape. If I was not a welcome guest, then maybe I needed another entrance. I walked back to the stairs and descended to the ground floor and the street. Walking along the row, I took the side alley, the wind whipping around the corner and pulling at my jacket, making me wish I’d brought a coat, but I’d only been dropping off my daughter — I had only been going out for an hour or so.

The alley led to a service road that ran behind the rows of houses, populated by dumpsters and networked by fire escapes that climbed the rear of the building. Light spilled from occupied flats, creating more shadow than illumination. I worked my way along the row until I was behind Claire’s flat. I could see the fire escape, but her windows were dark. Maybe she was away. That wouldn’t be a bad idea if she was feeling nervous. Maybe in the absence of a reply from me she had decided to take a break somewhere warm and leave it all behind, except she didn’t strike me as the sort of person to leave when things were in crisis. Intensifying the misdirection around me, I rolled one of the dumpsters under the fire escape. Climbing on top, I leapt upwards to catch the rail of the fire escape, expecting it to lower itself on counterweights so that I could use the steps. Instead, I hung there, swinging from the underside of the rail from the cold steel bars. Shifting my weight between my hands, I felt above me, finding nothing to hold so that I could pull myself upwards.

While I didn’t have anything like the reaction to steel that I had to iron, it wasn’t the easiest thing to hang from, not helped by the dull throb from my recent encounter with a van. The metal felt intensely cold, and I could feel a spreading ache seeping into my muscles. I dropped back to the dumpster with a booming thud. Perhaps the mechanism had been designed specifically to prevent it being used as an aid to burglary. Perhaps I needed another approach. I jumped down from the dumpster and hauled it out of the way.

Scanning up and down the alley, I listened for signs that I was being observed. I stepped across the alley, putting my back against the wall opposite so that I could see where I wanted to be. I deepened the glamour of concealment, and then opened the well of power within me. The air around me chilled even further and the wind whipped down the alley tumbling empty cardboard coffee cups and discarded carrier bags along. I drew power into me, watching the lights in the surrounding flats dim and flicker. I felt the emptiness within me dilate as more power poured into the well at my core.

Gradually the world took on a papery thinness, as if it were made only of images painted on insubstantial shadows. Walls became translucent, so that I could see the shifting shadows of people moving within. I stared up at Claire’s balcony, focusing on that point, and stepped forwards. The world flashed white and then was quiet. I turned and could look down to where I’d been in the service alley. On the walkway above me, a door opened and someone walked along the metal walkway. There was a sharp tapping. A door opened.

“It’s only me,” said a female voice. “Is your electric all right? Mine is going on and off.”

A male voice answered. “No, mine too. It’s back on now, though.”

“I thought it was gonna go off for good,” said the first voice.

“Seems to be OK now,” said the man.

“I’ve got some candles if you need them. They’re scented ones, but if you need some I’ve got plenty.”

“I’m fine thanks.”

“Am I interrupting something?” said the female voice.

“I was just sitting down to supper,” said the male voice. I could hear the blatant lie in that. From the tone, I was surprised she couldn’t.

“OK then. I’d best be getting back.”

“See you, then.”

I heard the footsteps padding back to the door above me, and then the door closing. The man’s door closed too, but I thought for a moment I could hear the faint sound of giggling coming from the man’s flat, though not in a male voice.

I set that aside and peered through the window into Claire’s flat. The windows were shut, and there were no lights inside. There was a fire exit off the kitchen and I pressed my hand to the door, wary of booby traps. Claire knew to protect herself from intruders — especially ones with my abilities.

The door clicked and I eased it open slowly, opening my senses to the dim interior. What hit me first was the smell — a stuffy, foetid aroma that jarred with my memory of the flat. It had been spotless when I’d been here last, and I couldn’t imagine her leaving it otherwise.

I stepped inside, leaving the door ajar for the fresh air more than anything else. The interior was dim, but I could see marks on the walls that hadn’t been there before. I weighed the risk for a moment, and then clicked on the light. I didn’t fancy exploring the flat in the dark.