"That's unusual," O said. "It should be locked, unless Ed opened it."
One of the officers bent to the lock.
"It's been broken," he said. "We'll go in first."
Magda and O stood back as the officers pushed open the door and proceeded inside. The smell of rancid meat wafted out to them, overlaid with the stink of shit and piss.
O's face contorted with pain and she rushed inside, Magda following.
The police officers stood looking at the wreckage of the place. Every piece of furniture was smashed, every item in the kitchen destroyed, food all over the floor topped with human excrement. The walls were spray painted with graffiti, the black paint dripping globules onto the floor.
Whores. Fags. Deviants. Get out.
The hateful words burned in Magda's mind, somehow worse than the destruction that lay about them.
O fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. Magda knelt next to her, wrapping her arms around her weeping lover. After a night of staying strong, this final offense had broken them.
Chapter 24
It had been a long day.
Blake walked slowly along the crowded streets from the museum back towards his flat. With each step he felt the jarring of the pavement through his bruised body and each breath hurt his lungs. He really should be in bed, but the exhibition opened at the weekend and it was all hands on deck to finish the last pieces of work. He wanted to be part of it.
After the blast at the Tate, Margaret had agreed on time off, but Blake wanted to complete his part of the display, and working alongside Catherine wasn't so difficult. He turned away from the flat and headed for Bar-Barian. Alcohol was the best way he knew to quiet his mind and dull the pain of his injuries.
A couple of drinks to take the edge off.
He walked into the bar, its familiarity a comfort. He didn't have to pretend here, because he was surrounded by people like himself. People who found truth and solace in drink.
"Usual?"
Blake nodded and Seb the barman poured two shots of tequila and grabbed a bottle of Becks from the fridge. Blake downed the shots, letting the golden nectar seep through him, bringing a calm he could reach no other way. He sipped at the beer, checking out the after-work crowd who gathered in Soho to find love for the night, acceptance in the arms of a stranger. Drinking alone in his flat meant that he had a problem, but here he was just one face in a party that went on at all hours in this part of London.
After another couple of shots, Blake sensed the heaviness that would let him slip into dreamless sleep. He wandered home slowly, the few blocks taking longer than usual as he lingered, watching the faces of the passersby. This was the floating part of being happily drunk, a wellbeing that buoyed the spirit.
Maybe he should call Jamie, Blake thought. Maybe she would come over and they would be together. Or he could call Catherine for something altogether less complicated.
He shook his head as he pushed the key into the lock on the front door. Probably best to go to sleep. He walked up the stairs, his steps heavy.
Then stopped at the top of the stairs. Something was wrong.
The door to his flat was open a few inches. Someone was here. The drunken sensations subsided as Blake focused. He clutched his keys in his hand, pushing one through his fingers to use as a weapon if needed.
He pushed open the door.
The man from the museum sat on his bed holding the Galdrabók in his strong hands. It was open to a page of Icelandic spells, the man's lips moving as he read them quietly.
He looked up at Blake, his eyes the color of northern oceans that would freeze a man to death in seconds. The scar across his nose was deep, the flesh livid around the edges. He was a stranger, but once again Blake saw a hint of his father in those features.
Blake stood in the doorway, ready to run.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Who are you?"
"I've been wanting to read this book again for a long time," the man said, with a slight Scandinavian accent. "Your father stole it from us many years ago."
Blake knew he should give it to the man and let him leave, but he felt a strange possessiveness for it, a need to keep it under his bed like a talisman. His father had used the book and Blake was curious as to whether he could use it himself.
"You don't look much like him." The man smiled, baring teeth that had been filed in the way of the Vikings. "But then I heard Magnus married as far from the north as he could."
"Who are you?" Blake asked again.
"Your uncle," the man said. "Allfrid Olofsson. One of your northern kin."
He held out a hand to Blake, holding it there, waiting. His other hand rested on the Galdrabók, claiming it.
After a moment, Blake reached out with gloved hands and shook. Allfrid looked down at the gloves.
"You have the sight, then."
His words were matter of fact and Blake reeled at the implication. It was the first time that anyone had been so accepting of his gift, treating it as mundane.
"What do you know of it?" he asked, coming into the room now and shutting the door. Allfrid was a threat, of that he was sure, but he also wanted to know more.
"You come from an ancient line of seers," Allfrid said. "But your father wanted none of it. He was scared of the visions and what was demanded of those who could renew the pact with the gods."
Blake sat down heavily in his desk chair.
"My father had visions too?"
Betrayal washed over him. The years of beating, the curses, the claim that Satan had entered him. All were just a way for his father to deny his own gift.
"He was one of the strongest among us," Allfrid said. "At least when we were young. But he left before he understood the true meaning or how to control it."
Blake looked at Allfrid, the words sparking something within.
"Yes, boy." Allfrid understood the look. "You can control it. You don't need those gloves if you know how to separate the visions in your mind from reality. You've never been taught the right way."
Blake pulled the gloves from his hands, revealing the crisscross scars underneath.
Allfrid shook his head in resignation. "Your father?"
Blake nodded. "He tried to beat the curse from me. And yet he kept the Galdrabók and used it to draw people to him. Even my mother, I suppose."
"We all have to manage our addictions," Allfrid said. His piercing gaze rocked Blake to the core, as if he could see the alcohol wrapped around his soul. "It's a struggle we each walk alone." He traced a finger over the pages of the book. "But this can help you, as can your family."
He thrust the book towards Blake.
"Read me through it, I know you can do this. Let me show you the north."
Blake hesitated. He had read his father through the book and witnessed a human sacrifice that left him retching and weak. Was he safe in this room, in a city so far from that wilderness?
He sensed a hard edge to Allfrid, a blade's breadth away from savagery, but here in the city it remained cloaked. If he opened his mind to the man, would he be able to return?
But curiosity drove him on. This was the first time anyone had explained his visions as an integral part of him, and now he knew he wasn't alone.
Blake put his hand on the book and closed his eyes.
There was no sinking through the layers of memory this time. There was a pure jolt of energy and he gasped with the cold. Blake opened his eyes to find himself standing in freshly fallen snow surrounded by birch trees. The tinkling of a stream pervaded the glade and a light rain fell on his exposed skin. Above the trees he could see mountaintops.