‘Oh shit,’ Maiden said.
She stood in the grass, fifteen, twenty yards away. A small figure in a torn skirt, hair sweated to her cheeks.
‘Come on, Adrian …’ Maiden held out his hands for the rifle.
But really the hands were out there in prayer.
‘Do the sensible thing, eh?’ Maiden said, just like the old man would’ve said.
Grayle Underhill said, ‘Oh.’
Feeling Fraser-Hale’s attention waver, Maiden went for him, went for the gun.
And felt the air pulse as Adrian moved with a swift and shocking grace, bringing up the rifle, half turning as Maiden went for him. That fixed, opaque glaze of madness in Adrian’s eyes, his teeth bared and parted. You could almost see the twisted, fibrous roots and stretched tendrils in the Green Man’s feral smile, as he brought down the wooden rifle butt hard into Maiden’s eye, the left one, the one that was still half closed.
As Maiden sank, in agony, to his knees, the world was divided into blurred segments by the railings, through which he could see the pale, wavering shape which would, by now, be sharp and tight in Adrian’s line of fire.
‘The woman’s on the line, Robert.’ The voice of the Green Man quivering with euphoria and a kind of wonder at the gloriously unexpected magic of the situation. ‘I said it should be three, didn’t I? The woman’s on the line.’
XLIX
Never occurred to Andy to be scared until she was inside the castle walls and there was no light.
Never been here before, at night, when there weren’t at least a couple of lights in the house. So Marcus wasn’t here. Well, good. Good — probably. Where would he have gone? Down to St Mary’s, most likely, into the pub. Andy would turn the car round, go check out the pub. OK. No problem.
She curved slowly round under the castle wall. Taken her over three hours to drive down from Elham, through the rush hour and then another damn rush hour and then foot down, but not too hard because it would be pretty stupid if, having driven twice round the suburbs to throw off any pursuit, she was nicked on some bloody cart track in the Black Mountains.
There’d been no pursuit, anyway. She’d have known. Would have been easy enough for Riggs to put out her registration to every force in Britain. It was clear enough, now, that Riggs had done no such thing. That the other person Tony Parker had felt obliged to contact with a view to calling off the bad guys was Mr Riggs himself.
And that Mr Riggs had said no. Or that Tony had died before he could even get round to asking him.
The bad guys, presumably, had been. But had the bad guys gone? Best to stay in the car a while. Andy checked the doors were locked. Leaning across to the passenger side, glancing out of the passenger window, she saw the body.
Marcus …
Backed up in a frenzy, turned the car round so that the headlights were on the face. Breathed again when it turned out not to be a face she knew: some young guy with dark brown, dried blood around a deep dent in his forehead, one arm skewed out with a hand upturned, clawed. A block of stone beside him big enough to mark his grave.
If he needed one? Wasn’t moving, looked all twisted up, but … The hell with this. Andy got out, checked for vital signs.
Cold. Dead a good while. What was this? This one of the bad guys? Way he was twisted, it was pretty clear he’d come crashing down the tower steps. Treacherous, those steps, particularly in the dark, but why the hell would he go up there in the first place? Andy looked around. Dead silence.
And then the house door opened.
‘Sister Anderson.’
Guy in a bomber jacket was walking across the dark yard towards her. She knew the voice, but then she knew a hell of a lot of voices. Whoever it was, he’d been in the house. If anybody was in that house, it ought to be Marcus.
Not so much scared as seriously apprehensive, she waited right where she was, within reach of the car. Until his face was in the headlights.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I didnae think it’d be you. Bloody Judas, eh?’
It began to rain. Big, hard, vertical bullets.
With a lot of difficulty, Grayle raised her eyes from the rifle barrel, which didn’t move so long as she didn’t. Which was pointing steadily at her breast bone.
‘This is where I … I get to die … right?’ She tried to see his face. She thought how Charlie had died. Not even crying out. Never knew. Poor Charlie. Came to conduct a wedding and he died.
Adrian said, ‘Don’t talk. Rejoice.’
‘Rejoice?’ Grayle flared up. ‘That what you told Ersula? When she …’
‘The bitch was unreceptive at the end.’
She heard Bobby Maiden speak, though she couldn’t see him. He sounded weak, he sounded hurt.
Adrian said, ‘Be quiet, Robert.’
‘… bloody coward, Adrian. But that’s hunting, isn’t it? Essence of a great British tradition. Guys with guns against animals that only run. Guys on horses with packs of hounds against one exhausted …’
‘Shut up!’
‘Natural balance, isn’t it? But, hell, Adrian, yours don’t even get a chance to run …’
‘I’ll kill you … You miserable piece of town-bred vermin. When this is over I’ll take you away to somewhere less sacred and I’ll kick the life out of you. In the meantime, you’ll shut your drivelling mouth and-’
‘You don’t kill.’ Bobby’s voice battling against the rain singing on the stones. ‘The Earth kills, remember? You can’t do it on your own. And the moment’s gone. The lightning’s over. Storm’s past. It’s raining. You’ve lost it. You can’t do it without the lightning.’
Please God, Grayle thought, no more lightning. Please God … Please Cindy …
‘Also …’ Bobby said from somewhere down on the ground between Adrian and the back rails. ‘Also, this is Grayle … You killed her once. And it wasn’t her. You blew it. Got it wrong … Grayle’s bad luck for you, Adrian.’
‘I do not get it wrong! ‘
‘You’re always getting it bloody wrong. What about the barbed wire in Wales? Put it out for a man, you catch a young lad. But he didn’t die, did he? You screwed up.’
Silence. Other noises behind the spattering on the stones. The smell of smoke from the pines. Grayle felt the rain pouring down her face, blurring her vision. Her clothes like a second, sodden skin. She was afraid to blink.
Adrian said, ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Ah,’ Bobby said. ‘Didn’t tell the stones, did you? Didn’t tell the stones you screwed up.’
Distant sheet lightning, no more than a veil. Grayle cringed. The barrel twitched. Oh Jesus. Involuntarily, Grayle squeezed her eyes shut, screamed, ‘Adrian, do you know who you shot down there. You shot Charlie … shot the goddamned minister!’
‘Well, good!’ he screamed back through the torrent. ‘Charlie was a disgrace. Charlie took drugs!’
‘And what the fuck did you give to Ersula?’ Bobby yelled.
‘You watch your filthy, vermin mouth …’
‘Maybe Grayle would like to know what else you don’t tell the Earth. Hey, considering where we are, considering how stones record, maybe the Earth would like to know what happens when you … when you take a sacrifice … when you pull the trigger … bring down the rock … sink in the knife … shove … shovel in the gravel and the concrete … When the earth-energy floods into your system like golden light? and you feel this … blinding joy? Maybe Grayle and the good old Earth goddess … your mother … your holy bride … would like to know what happens then, how you always come in your pants, when …’
‘You filthy … swine …’
Grayle’s eyes jerked open to the sight of Adrian up on the lone recumbent stone, screaming, holding the rifle by the barrel, smashing it down on Bobby Maiden, Bobby shouting, ‘Get off the line, Grayle, get off the fucking line …’