Hal thought for a moment and then said angrily, ‘Look at us.’
‘What?’
‘Look at us! Why are we friends? Answer me that. I’m a clerk. I file files. You kill people-’
‘Steady on, mate.’
‘A crisis in my day is if a document on “taxation levels” accidentally finds its way into “L” instead of “T”. Meanwhile, you’re slitting some poor bastard’s throat or shoving a screwdriver into his ear.’
‘That would be an unfortunate use of work tools.’
‘We’ve got nothing in common.’ Hal shivered in a gust of icy wind and huddled down further into his parka.
‘Why are we friends?’ Hunter mused. ‘Well-’
‘Apart from the fact that no one else will put up with you.’
‘Oh.’ Hunter considered his response, then said, ‘Well, we’re friends because I know why you’re talking about this instead of what we should be talking about. We’re friends because in all the world you’re the only one I can tell about slitting some poor bastard’s throat and know you won’t judge me. And we’re friends because I’m the only one who will sit and listen to you drivelling on about filing Wanky Polemics under the Dewey Decimal System and Rat’s Arse Rates under A to Z. You’re a boring fucker, Hal, and no mistake. But I love you for it.’
Hal snatched the bottle back and drank more than he should have in a single draught. ‘So it’s all coming to an end,’ he snapped. ‘I’m inclined to say, so what?’
Hunter jumped to his feet and leaped on to the edge of the fountain, in danger of plunging backwards through the thin sheet of ice into the dark water beneath. ‘Because this is the worst time for it to end. We’ve got a chance to make a fresh start. Put everything right. Build the kind of world we should have. We’re newborns, Hal, and you don’t sacrifice infants.’
‘If it’s as bad as you say, what can be done about it? The PM, the General-’
‘You can’t trust people in power.’
‘How can you say that? You work for the Government. They pay your wages.’
‘They pay me to do a job. And I do it. But they don’t buy me. Those in power always think they’re doing things for the people. They’re not — they do things they think they would like done if they were the people. Do you get me? Old song: “The public wants what the public gets” — beats some old philosopher any day. And that’s how the ones in power think.’
‘What are you saying, Hunter?’ Hal asked wearily.
‘I’m saying, mate, that when push comes to shove, it might be up to us to do something.’
‘Us?’ Hal said incredulously.
‘Us. You and me. Against the world.’
‘Now I know you’ve gone mad.’
‘Desperate times bring out the best in everyone, pal. And disaster is necessary if you want to be resurrected.’
‘I don’t want to be resurrected.’
‘Everyone does. From the life they’re living to the life they should be living.’
‘So, what — you’re saying I should learn how to use a gun so we can go out like Butch and Sundance?’
‘I get to be Sundance. He was the good-looking one.’
‘Stop it, Hunter.’
‘We’re going to do something, Hal, and you don’t have a choice. I just haven’t decided what yet.’
Hal tossed Hunter the bottle, then set off down the path towards the High Street without a backward glance.
‘They said Nero was mad, too!’ Hunter roared after him before laughing as if he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world.
Hal made his way along the High Street in the face of the gusting wind. Night was falling, earlier than he had anticipated. It would have been much more sensible to go back to his warm room, so perhaps he was as crazy as Hunter after all. The snow drifted against the shops and restaurants, still closed from the days before the Fall but close to coming back into use. Hal could see the occasional swept floor and fresh lick of paint, and sense an almost painfully building anticipation. Human nature was intrinsically optimistic; no one would imagine an even greater Fall coming so hard on the heels of the last one.
Hal picked his route randomly, letting his subconscious drag him this way and that, lost to his thoughts. His mind turned naturally to Samantha, as if she was the only thing in the world that truly mattered; he guessed in his world she probably was. Basically, he was pathetic, he decided; when it came to any kind of emotional life he was paralysed, stuttering like some monastic fool whenever he met a woman. Except this wasn’t just any woman. Samantha made him feel special whenever he saw her. But why couldn’t he express it to her? It was his parents’ fault, obviously, or his teachers’; some trauma during his formative years. Or perhaps he really was pathetic.
The city looked magical under the coating of snow. The dreaming spires gleamed white against the night sky, the domes and ancient rooflines like frosted cakes. Hal stood at the crossroads where the High Street met St Aldate’s and turned slowly in the deserted street. Surveying the city, he realised how much he loved it. It represented so much more than the agglomeration of bricks and mortar that shaped its fabric; its history made it a living thing; its dedication to centuries of learning made it something greater; and he couldn’t help but think that in some way they were spoiling it, though he couldn’t quite grasp how, or why.
As he shuffled around in the snow, raising little fountains of white every time he turned, movement caught his eye. Something was heading along Blue Boar Street. It was near to the ground — measured, tiny sparks of light floating in the gloom.
Hal hesitated. Thoughts of the strange, dangerous creatures that now existed beyond the city boundaries dampened his curiosity. But then a soft, lilting song floated out across the drifts, so light and organic it could have been a breeze itself. It was hypnotic, and before he knew what he was doing he had advanced to the end of the darkened side street.
The sight was stranger than anything he could have imagined. A column of tiny figures was making its way along the gutter — men, women and children little more than eight inches high, dressed in clothes that appeared to come from a range of different eras: medieval, Elizabethan, Georgian, some in Victorian top hats and long coats. Hal even made out miniature horses and minuscule dogs in the sombre procession. Some of the figures carried tiny lanterns aloft on crooked sticks to light their path as they walked and sang. A strange atmosphere hovered around them, like an invisible mist into which Hal had wandered. It felt as if he was in a dream, watching himself watching them.
The little man at the head of the column had a long, curly beard and eyes that gleamed all black as if cast in negative. He noticed Hal and held up a hand. The others came to a sudden halt. All eyes fell upon Hal.
‘What are you doing here?’ Hal said. It sounded as though his voice was coming from somewhere else.
‘What are you doing here?’ The little man’s voice had a deep, echoing quality.
‘I live here,’ Hal replied. He realised that he felt drunk or drugged, for he was responding to something that was inherently absurd, yet it all made the clearest sense to him in a way that things only did when you were intoxicated.
‘These are not the Fixed Lands,’ the little man said, puzzled. ‘These are the Far Lands. You are in Faerie, Son of Adam. Take care.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Hal replied. The little man’s face darkened and Hal decided it would be best to change the subject. ‘Where are you going?’