Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

“It doesn’t say much for the other options,” I said. “We need a better plan than Angela’s house, with the greatest respect to you, Angela.”

“I agree with you,” she said, emphatically. “What about Yonna or Kimlesh? Won’t they help us?”

“I think they would if they could,” said Blackbird, “But they don’t own their courts and they have their own dissenters. They can’t just give us property as a donation or a loan. Can you imagine how long it would take Teoth or Krane to let slip that the courts were giving their assets away to support a bunch of half-breeds?”

“We can’t all go to Tamworth,” I said. “How long do you think it would be before the authorities took an interest in us, operating out of semi-detached in a housing estate? How long before one of the new intake loses it and we’re attracting entirely the wrong sort of attention. These people need space — room to make mistakes. I give it a week.”

Angela picked up one of the journals I’d rescued from the archive office. “Perhaps the knights will help us. They’re all old families. Claire said they were wealthy. We might as well go through the journals and see if we can find any reference to them,” said Angela.

“Even if you can decipher the text, I’m not sure it’ll help,” said Blackbird. “We’re not supposed to know who they are, let alone ask them for favours.”

“By the same token,” I pointed out, “If they’d been at the ceremony as they were supposed to have been, perhaps none of this would have happened. They must bear some of the responsibility.”

“That’s true,” said Blackbird, “But what if they didn’t come because they’re all dead, their throats slit like poor Claire?”

“Then we really are screwed,” said Angela.

“What about the Secretariat?” I suggested. “They must have resources. Maybe they can lend us something in the interests of keeping the peace.”

“I don’t need another set of negotiations,” said Blackbird, “and they will want something in return.”

“It’s in their own interest. Otherwise they have to clean up the mess, and prevention is better than cure, surely?” I saw a shadow pass across Angela’s eyes at the mention of a cure. She’d been at Porton Down and knew first hand the sort of cures they’d been developing there. “Sorry,” I said to her, “bad turn of phrase”.

“If we meet the Secretariat,” said Blackbird, “then Garvin will know about it.”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

“I want him kept out of it, Niall.”

“I won’t tell him. I promise.”

“You won’t need to. If the Secretariat is involved then it will get back to him and then he’ll have reason to start sticking his nose where it’s not wanted. They won’t help us anyway. You’ve said yourself that they’re only interested in covering their backs.”

“Then we need a better idea,” I told her, “and fast.”

“Are you all right, Sweetheart? Can I get you something?” It was the tenth time she’d asked that question; well maybe not the tenth, but it was getting on Alex’s nerves.

“No, Mum, I don’t want anything.”

That at least was true. There was nothing Alex wanted and nothing she could do. She couldn’t go out, or see her friends, or mooch around the shops, or invite Kayleigh round, or any of the things she might have done. She’d thought twice about inviting Kayleigh, but how did you even begin to explain, and anyway, what would they talk about? She’d stood outside Kayleigh’s house one night and watched her. It’d been like time-travel, watching someone from the past. For Kayleigh, nothing had changed. For Alex, everything had changed.

“Are you all right?” asked her Mum.

The question again. “I’m fine.”

“It’s just… do you mind not doing that with the cushions?”

Alex looked down in her lap at the cushion she had twisted until it was wound tight. She let go and it sprang back into plumpness, though the cover retained the stress lines across it. She smoothed them with her hand.

Katherine sat opposite, waiting for Alex to say something.

“What?” said Alex.

“If there’s something on your mind, you can always talk to me about it,” said Katherine.

No, she really couldn’t. She shook her head. “I’m OK. What’s for supper?”

Katherine wasn’t put off so easily. “Alex, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“What about? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“You’ve said some things — I understand. Teenagers make things up all the time. It’s part of their narrative — coming to terms with the world. I know you need… attention. But you’re home now. You can let all that go.”

“All what?” asked Alex, genuinely puzzled.

“All that stuff about killing people, and being on the run. You forget, I was a teenager once.” She smiled. “It’s all about the drama.”

“Drama?”

“You’re very creative. You always had an active imagination. It’s only natural that you should make up stories.”

“I killed three girls,” said Alex, coldly, staring at her mother. “I went to school with them, and now they’re dead.”

“That was an accident,” said Katherine. “It was the sewer — there was an explosion. It was a tragedy, of course.”

“I drowned them,” said Alex, “in sewage.”

Katherine laughed nervously. “There you go. Stories. You see?”

“You think this is made up?” said Alex. “You think I’m imagining this shit?”

“There’s no need for that language, young lady!”

Alex shook her head. “You have no idea, do you? I’ve fought for my life, made friends, and enemies, stolen things, taken stuff. I’ve bargained with ravens, walked unseen through the Houses of Parliament. I’ve seen the cosmos split apart above me… the universe, opened up — made to take notice.”

“You say things I don’t think you even understand,” said Katherine. “What does that even mean?”

“I’ve seen Dad, shining in the dark like a…”

“Like a what?” asked Katherine.

“Nothing,” said Alex.

“If your father is encouraging this…”

“You still don’t get it,” said Alex. “This is not about him. It’s about me.”

Katherine reached forward and grasped Alex’s wrist. “What’s this?” She pushed Alex’s sleeve up her arm revealing the winding pattern of dark vines. “You got a tattoo. It’s not even a nice one. What’s it supposed to be?” She took hold of her other wrist and looked at that as well. “They don’t even match.”

“It’s not a tattoo,” said Alex.

“Is that why you’ve been sitting in your cardie sweltering while I’ve got the central heating on? Because you were ashamed to show me? When did you get that done? Did your father let you do that to yourself?”

“I told you it’s not a tattoo. It just does that.”

“I’ll have to talk to him,” said Katherine. “This can’t go on.”

“No!” said Alex. “Don’t talk to him about me. Talk to me about me. I’m right here!”

“This is silly,” said Katherine, making to stand up.

“Don’t walk away,” said Alex. “That’s what you always do to Dad. You say something and then you make out that it’s nothing, but you’ve already said it by then.”

“Leave my relationship with your father out of this.”

“Then talk to me,” said Alex. “Dad treats me like a grown-up.”

“I’ll treat you like one, when you act like one.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me,” she said. “You think I’m making it all up.” She looked around the room. “Central heating pipes, all round the house. How about we make it go backwards?”