14.2

 

Roisin froze. She looked around for something – anything – to use as a weapon, but the vestibule contained little other than a bin full of junkmail, a pair of Paul’s heavy boots and the coat pegs. Out of desperation, she ran her hands across the pegs in the hope of finding a coat hanger and her hand closed over a hard, rolled piece of plastic cloth and she lifted it off the peg, gripping the umbrella like a club.

Footsteps followed — slow, deliberate, descending the stairs. She readied the umbrella: one hand on the steel tip and the other just above it to get the biggest swing she could. It would have help her do have played rounders when she was in school, but she was terrible at sports and was generally the last to be picked for a team. Even Linda Rawlins got picked before her, and she only had one arm. She took a deep breath in, her mouth open to avoid a hiss of air, though if the intruder couldn’t hear her heart thumping against the back of her ribs she’s have been surprised.

“Paul?”

Steve’s voice.

Relief flooded her so quickly she almost laughed. “Steve? It’s me. Why is it so dark?”

“You’re the one who’s just come in. You tell me.” He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. With a click, light flooded the little vestibule and the stairs, making her blink in the sudden light and losing all the night-eye she’d built up. Blinking furiously, she looked up at him, since he hadn’t yet reached the bottom of the stairs. He was in the same clothes as before. Not similar clothes, but the same ones, She recognised the ketchup stain on his shirt sleeve and the fray cuff of his trousers. The only difference was tonight he was wearing glasses; basic wire-framed ones made famous by Lennon in the sixties. Sheepishly, she lowered the umbrella.

Steve stared at her. Not with confusion or concern, but with recognition. “You brought something back,” he said quietly. “Didn’t I warn you about this?”

Roisin felt the cold deepen. “I didn’t—”

Steve shook his head. “Not intentionally. But it’s here.”

Roisin swallowed. “What is?”

Steve stepped closer, his expression tense, his eyes scanning the air around her as though looking for something invisible. “One of Them.”

Roisin felt her pulse hammer. “One of what?” She raised her makeshift club again and turned her back to Steve, hoping to see whatever it was that had followed her back from the gallery. Was it the artist? Could he be invisible? She tried to discern any shifting planes of possibility, but nothing revealed itself.

Steve nodded. “A traveller. A djinn. A demon. A devil. An imp. An Elemental. An Angel.”

“Angel?” Roisin turned again to stare at him. “How do you see it when I can’t?”

Steve hesitated, then tapped his glasses. With these. They cost me a small fortune but the best investment I ever made. “That looks to be a nasty one. An imp, I’d guess, though they can all change their appearance. I’ve seen one like that before.”

Roisin felt her stomach tighten. “Where?”

“Attached to my mother after my brother was born. I was a lot younger then, but seeing what it did to her changed my like in ways I wouldn’t wish on anybody.”

“What happened to her?”

Steve didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence was enough.

Roisin pressed a hand to her chest. “I feel a bit sick.”

Steve nodded. “I’m not surprised. It’s feeding off you. Pumping you full of whatever it’s made of. You’re lucky you only just picked it up. Even luckier I was here to see it.” His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “If lucky is the right word.”

Roisin’s breath trembled. “What do you mean?”

Steve met her eyes. “The more I learn about this stuff, the less I believe in luck. It’s more like we’re all just little pieces in some weird celestial game of multi-dimensional chess.”

Roisin felt as if the world was tilting. “And we’re the pawns, are we?”

“Some of us are. Most of us are merely the beans marking the score.” Steve stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Listen to me. You need to stay calm. It feeds on fear.”

Roisin shook her head. “I’m not afraid.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You’re a fucking good actress, then. Your knuckles are white.”

She looked down. Her hands were clenched so hard around the shaft of the umbrella the blood had fled from her fingers.

Steve reached out, gently touching her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

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