Ian Johnstone - The Bell Between Worlds

With that, he gave the boy a firm shove between the shoulder blades and Sylas found himself in the road. He heard the wail of a car horn and he turned his head to see three cars bearing down on him. He threw himself forward, darting left and then right to avoid them as they slammed on their brakes, sending up plumes of spray from their tyres. His heart was in his mouth, but somehow he danced between them and got safely to the other side.

As he stepped on to the pavement, he chanced a look back across the road. Herr Veeglum was still standing there, his hands at his sides, his face peculiarly calm, bearing an expression not dissimilar to Mr Zhi’s at the moment he had said goodbye. The undertaker raised one hand in a brief wave, then motioned furiously for him to go.

Sylas glanced quickly in the direction of the Shop of Things. Somehow he knew that Mr Zhi would be able to explain everything, but he could see no light through the window and there was no sign of the old shopkeeper. He summoned all his courage and turned his back on Gabblety Row.

Veeglum watched as Sylas sped off down the pavement towards the supermarket and then disappeared down a dark alley at its side. He shook his head wistfully, turned and walked round the corner of the row. When he reached the door, he stood some distance away and watched it shudder and vibrate as the beast charged at it from behind. The timbers held, yet around the frame tiny clouds of dust were curling into the night air and small pieces of mortar were falling to the floor. Then the great wooden beam above the frame shifted and an entire brick fell out of the wall.

He unfastened the buttons of his greatcoat and pulled it from his shoulders, revealing an immaculate black suit, a crisp white shirt and a pressed black tie. He laid the coat neatly on the pavement, folding the arms tidily over the top.

At that moment another smaller figure appeared from the lane behind Gabblety Row. This man also wore a suit, but of an ill-kempt, crumpled sort, and his appearance was all the more curious on account of his odd little pot-like hat and one ornately decorated glove.

Veeglum didn’t acknowledge him as he approached, but pulled on a plain green glove of his own.

Then they turned to face the door.

Sylas ran down the alleyway into the housing estate, the noise from the road quickly giving way to the near silence of the sleeping town. He emerged into a cul-de-sac and swung right, following his normal route to the shops. For once he was glad of the many errands he had run for his uncle, for he knew these roads well. He took a twisting, turning path down little-known lanes, across private gardens, allotments and tiny streets: he would be almost impossible to follow. He headed for the Hailing Bridge, which crossed the river in the centre of town. It lay directly in his path to the bell.

The bell struck again and he saw the rain around him change direction sharply, then slowly swing around as the sad, long note drew it towards the hills. He glanced in disbelief at the darkened windows of the estate, the curtains firmly closed and the occupants oblivious to the drama that was unfolding around them. Every unexpected splatter of rain in a puddle, every random crunch of a stone underfoot made his heart race even faster, but he fixed his eyes ahead and ran for his life.

He negotiated a warren of darkened pathways and finally he saw the bridge ahead. It was a simple structure of steel girders fixed at crude right angles to one another, most of which were emblazoned with graffiti colours. The centre of the bridge was unlit, but the two lamps at either end shone brightly above the oily black river.

Sylas’s heart sank.

There, barely visible in the very middle of the bridge, was a man leaning on one of the railings, looking in the opposite direction.

What was he doing there at this time of night?

Sylas stopped – this felt wrong. He thought of turning and running back through the estate to the other bridge, but retracing his steps would be dangerous. He considered waiting to see if the man moved away, but by then the dog might be upon him.

There was no option: he must cross the Hailing Bridge, and do it now.

He gathered his courage and slowly climbed the steps to the span of the bridge.

As he reached the top, the man became more visible. He wore a loose, torn black coat and seemed unusually tall and muscular.

Sylas was uneasy, but he kept on walking. The chime of the bell was waning now and he could hear the sound of rushing water beneath him, the black surface sending up distorted reflections of the distant streetlamps on the other side of town. As he passed out of the light, he walked close to one of the railings and tilted his head to see the man’s face, but it was covered by a large hood.

He controlled his nerves and strode on. Soon he was walking past the stranger. One, two steps beyond. He braced himself to run.

“Hello, Sylas.”

He froze, heart racing.

“A curious place to meet – don’t you think?” It was a deep, accented voice.

Sylas eyed the far end of the bridge – he would have no chance of reaching it if the man gave chase.

“I— I don’t know you... do I?”

“The middle of a river, I mean,” said the man. “It’s neither here nor there.”

Sylas turned and saw that he hadn’t moved, but was still staring out over the river.

The stranger sucked in a deep breath. “What did the Greeks say about rivers? A border between worlds, was it? Or was it something about fate… I can’t remember. Your world, not mine.”

Sylas started to back away. “I don’t… I don’t know,” he stammered, “but I have to…”

“And where do you think you’re off to?” said the stranger sharply, stirring for the first time and standing to his full, towering height. He peered down from the shadows of his hood. “I’m afraid you won’t get very far without my help.”

“But who are you?” asked Sylas, still poised to run.

The man seemed to consider this for a moment.

“Call me Espen,” he said. He lifted his hands to his hood and pulled it back.

Sylas took a step back. The stranger’s youthful features were terribly disfigured. His burnished mahogany skin was riven by a cruel tear that ran from just below his hairline, over the bridge of his nose and cheek to his neck, where it disappeared under the folds of his coat. The wound was still red and inflamed and he winced slightly as he attempted a smile.

“Take this as the mark of a friend,” he said, waving his hand towards his face. “I’ve already met the abomination that chases you.”

Sylas was suddenly struck by the stranger’s voice. He had heard it before. It was the voice from the back of the Shop of Things.

Mr Zhi’s assistant!

His panic began to subside. “Are you... do you know Mr Zhi?”

The stranger smiled briefly. “Yes.”

Sylas felt a wave of relief. He glanced in the direction of the estate. “So you know what that thing is? The thing that’s chasing me?”

“Answers breed questions, Sylas,” said Espen, “and we’re already out of time. I don’t wish to meet that thing twice in one day. We must go.”

“Where?”

The man was looking back towards Gabblety Row. “You know where,” he replied in a vacant voice, still looking away. “To the bell.”

“Can you hear—”

Suddenly a mournful howl rose from somewhere on the housing estate, in precisely the direction Espen had been looking. The soulless baying hung in the air, echoing from walls, trees and rooftops. The lights of the estate began to flare into life.

“It’s already close,” said Espen. “How fast can you run?”

“Pretty fast,” said Sylas. He knew he was quick – it was the one compliment his uncle ever paid him. “Follow me.”