Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

There was a silent exchange between the two Lords and they withdrew a short distance to confer. The discussion then was no less animated, but they kept their voices low. The man at the fire was clearly trying to overhear, but the two escorts placed them selves between him and their discussion, ensuring a certain amount of privacy. After a while the argument subsided and they returned to the fire. Lord Krane spoke to the undertaker who offered his hand as if to shake on the deal. After a moment, Lord Krane held out the white cloth and dropped it into the fire. The man shouted at this and attempted to grab the cloth from the fire. Meanwhile Lord Teoth pointed to the man, the shelter and the fire, and then walked away with Lord Krane.

Without warning, the two escorts drew weapons and attacked the little man. He wasn’t armed, while one of the escorts had an axe, and the other a sword. Alex couldn’t bear it. She looked away and covered her ears at the terrible cries from the man as he was brutally cut down. When she looked back, the escorts were taking the shelter apart and tossing it onto the fire piece by piece. The little man’s body had been thrown on the fire with everything else. The fire produced thick grey smoke, and for a moment Alex caught the smell of it and nearly threw up. Tate glared at her, and she slid back down the bank away from the sight. She could no longer watch.

She remained at the foot of the bank until Tate joined her. When Alex made to speak, he hushed her, but knelt and let her climb aboard his back. Without a word he set off back through the woods, leaving Alex shocked and confused at what she’d seen. The wild ride through the trees was repeated, but her mind kept returning to the events in the clearing, what she’d witnessed, and why Tate had gone to some trouble to observe the two Feyre Lords unnoticed. By the time they reached the Way-node, she was exhausted, both mentally and physically.

Tate knelt to let her slide from his back. “Can you find your way back?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I guess so.”

“Then perhaps I’ll speak with you tomorrow,” he said. “In the meantime, do not discuss what you saw with anyone.”

“Not even Dad?” she said.

“Especially your Dad,” he said. “If I’d known what was going to happen…”

“Oh shit!” said Alex. “I was supposed to look after the baby. Lesley’s been left with him all evening.”

“Then you’d better come up with a good excuse,” said Tate. “One that doesn’t include what you saw.”

“What did I see?” asked Alex.

Tate looked at her long and hard. “You don’t need to know,” he said. “That sort of information can get you killed.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll only guess,” she pointed out. “Why would they argue about a stained bit of white cloth?”

Tate sighed. “That’s the wrong question,” he said.

“OK then, what’s the right question?” she asked.

“What was on the cloth that they would kill to get rid of it?” said Tate.

“And?” asked Alex.

“If you hadn’t been with me,” said Tate, “I might have been tempted to go and find out.”

I was beginning to wonder whether asking Dave to take me to Paddington was a good idea. We had done well initially, but then the traffic had snarled up and we’d moved forward twenty yards in as many minutes.

“How far is it?” I asked Dave.

“If we can get through Sussex Square we’ll probably be OK,” he said, “Paddington’s about half a mile that way, but a lot of this is the queue to get onto the Westway and out of London. At this time of day we could be a while.”

“OK, you head back. I’ll find my own way back when I’ve done what I need to do. I can walk from here.”

“It’ll probably be quicker,” he agreed.

Exiting the car, I joined the commuters heading through the winter streets towards Paddington. It was already dusk and I hurried through streets flanked with railway hotels and town houses converted into flats. As I neared the station I walked alongside commuters heading for their evening trains and reflected briefly that they used to be me, or more properly I used to be them. They walked through the streets, talking on mobile phones, listening to MP3 players, carrying newspapers for the homeward journey. They didn’t acknowledge me, each other, or their surroundings. The poet John Donne once wrote that no man is an island, but these men and women were doing a good impression of being cut off at high tide.

As I neared the station entrance the neighbourhood took a turn for the worse and I used my glamour to avoid attention. There’s something about railway stations that attracts people who ought to be somewhere else. They get trapped in the ebb and flow and remain in its backwaters, floating around the edges and hoping for… what? Perhaps because such places change constantly they feel that they too could change, or perhaps it’s just so noisy and distracting that they never have to hear themselves think.

Behind Paddington Station is an old canal basin. I followed the walkway to a bridge to find that since my last visit it had been redeveloped and was now flanked by glass-fronted office buildings and spanned by steel and cable suspension bridges. Narrow boats and barges were docked in the basin, but these were brightly painted, shiny examples compared to the rusting hulks I remembered.

I crossed the murky water and slipped between the coffee shops and office blocks and headed through the back streets and under the Westway. While couriers on motorbikes weaved through the nose-to-tail traffic above me, I slipped underneath and followed the side roads through to Paddington Green. Where the public side of Paddington Station had been converted houses and seedy hotels, this was rows of flats, one after another. The smell of boiled vegetables overlaid with curry aromas drifted down the side roads, accompanied by a soundtrack of screaming children, teatime TV and distant sirens.

The small park was an island of green in the urban landscape, with the church and its graveyard beside it, the sombre, mossy tombs standing like witnesses to the gradual encroachment of tarmac and concrete. The last light had long faded from the sky to be replaced by the city glow reflected from the underside of the scudding clouds. A group of black youths made their way from Westminster College across the way, huddled against the cold, their heavy bags slung across their chests, heads together in conversation. Like everyone else, they ignored me.

I wandered slowly around the park. A lone figure was sitting on the end of one of the benches, his coat wrapped close. I took my time, looking for watchers, wary of traps.

Having satisfied myself that we were not being observed, I took the path through the park. As I approached, I let the glamour fall away so that the person on the bench would notice me. He sat up straighter as I approached.

As I neared the bench, I realised who had left the note. The sandy hair gave it away, though Sam Veldon could easily have been mistaken for a tramp, sat on the bench, wrapped in his overcoat.

Sam worked for one of the Home Office agencies — anti-terror or against organised crime — Claire had said it was something like that. He and Claire had once been an item, but the relationship had foundered on the secrets between them. Sam had been unable to share his work and unwilling to accept that Claire had her own secrets. Now Claire was dead.

I stopped a few yards away. “Sam? It was you who left the note?”

“We’re not on first name terms,” he said. “You’re not my friend.” He steadfastly looked ahead, refusing to acknowledge my presence.

“I’m not your enemy either.”

“Sit down,” he said. “You draw too much attention.”