The Realms Thereunder aet-1 Page 3

  Freya nodded. That was something else they wouldn’t understand. She couldn’t talk to her tutor because her tutor wouldn’t know what Freya was talking about. She wasn’t reading English. She was reading philosophy and theology.

  “Okay,” the porter continued. “I can allow you back in if you promise not to talk or make a fuss. Can you do that?”

  Freya turned without saying a word and went outside. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she was a good way down High Street before she realised that she’d only gone through the doorway once on her way outside. She stopped immediately, paralysed by a building tidal wave of panic. She braced herself against the wall and watched the people pass her on the pavement and the traffic rattling up and down the street, oblivious of the terrible chaos that engulfed them-that existed in all things.

  She needed order; she needed to know that things could make sense, that she could enforce her will upon the storm of existence. She crossed the street twice, and then four more times. This calmed her and she kept crossing the street as she made her way into town.

  Why did she do it? What did it matter what people thought and believed, even if it was a lie? What right did she have to burst the fragile bubble of unreality that people surround themselves with? So long as they live happily, what does it matter if they live a lie? Ignorance is a blessing. It was futile to try to wake people up, so why did she do it?

  Freya sighed. She knew exactly why she did it.

  She was so wrapped up in these thoughts that she almost walked right into Daniel Tully, the one person in the whole city she was deliberately trying to avoid. She held her breath and saw that he seemed to be so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice her either. She walked closely by him, very nearly brushing his shoulder, and then took an immediate turn down a side street.

  She forced herself not to break into an immediate run. If he didn’t notice her by now, he didn’t have a reason to come after her. Freya’s heart felt like breaking, though, seeing him like that, clearly living off the street. She had spotted him yesterday, sitting outside the Sheldonian Theater, begging. She was in a bookshop cafe across the street and must have stared at him for almost an hour, not sure if she should go to him or leave him alone. If she did, what would she say? What could she say? Did it matter if she said anything, and if it didn’t, then why should she put herself or him through the torture of awkwardness. And so she just sat there, oscillating between action and inaction, and doing nothing, on the verge of tears.

  “Freya!” came a shout from behind her. It was definitely his voice even though it was deeper-a man’s voice now but unmistakably his.

  Her heart nearly stopped but she kept walking.

  “Freya, come back!”

  That was too much for her; she broke into a flat-out run. She made it to the end of the street and did a quick turn left and then right, not stopping until she reached the Bodleian Library, which was students only-they wouldn’t allow him in there. She managed to keep herself together until she found an unoccupied study desk, sank into it, head in her arms, and started sobbing silently.

  4

  Alex Simpson of the Northern Constabulary pulled out of the Muir of Ord police station and started the drive back. He was tired to the bone, but there was an electric ball of energy in his gut that pushed him on. He had changed out of his uniform, naturally, but he had pocketed his notebook. It lay on the passenger’s seat next to him almost radiating weight and importance.

  He pulled into the small driveway of his small cottage and let himself in, going straight into his back study and sliding the elastic band off the cover of the black notebook. He thumbed to the last page of writing. He studied it for a few moments and then turned to the wall map. It showed all of Scotland, took up most of the wall, and had cost a fair penny. Today it would be working for him.

  For the first time in several months he had managed to get some time alone on one of the office computers, where he could access the NC’s intranet. Until today, he had been unable to peruse Scotland’s crime and misdemeanor reports for anything that looked-well, suspicious. Suspicious to him, that is. And finally he had found something. Missing livestock, even killed and mangled livestock, was no novelty in the highlands, but that, coupled with a 27 percent bump in area crime, and a 300 percent rise in unnatural deaths in the last nine months-that was suspicious and worth sticking on the map.

  Running his eyes over the blue pins already spread across the wall, he started to put red pins into the map around the Highlands Council area. Seven sheep reported missing and remains found on the farm of Robert Corbet near Kildonan. With no information on where the animals were found or known to be missing from, he stuck three pins around the farmstead. Two cattle killed and found near the farm of Mactire at Braemore-two pins. Nineteen more reports in the last four months-a couple dozen more red pins.

  Next, violent crimes and robberies. A couple hundred of these, in black pins. It took the better part of an hour to mark them all. Next, suicides. Perhaps the most depressing. And again, far more common than one would hope in rural Scotland. In the last six months, forty. Fifteen minutes later forty more pins, these ones yellow, stuck in the map.

  It was certainly painting a picture. Stepping back, he looked at the nebulous whole of incidents spread pretty much at random- except for a massive cluster of pins to the northeast, in Caithness. It was a sparsely populated area, which made the number of crimes even more remarkable. The haze of red, black, and yellow-at least half of the yellow pins-were clustered there, around a mountain called Morven, which had a bright-blue pin sticking in it. Alarm bells rang in his head.

  He phoned his associate and asked him to come over. It was important. His associate was also a member of the Highland Constabulary and the only man in the world besides his father- who was now very old and of diminishing faculties-whom he could speak to about these matters.

  He put the kettle on and had just made a pot of tea when his associate knocked on the door and let himself in, walking straight through to the kitchen.

  “Ah, tea,” he said. “The drink of the English, of my people- right? What have you got to show me?”

  Alex took him through and showed him the map on the wall and briefly explained the pins.

  “Then it is clear,” his associate said gravely. “You must go and investigate. Make sure you go fully equipped. It could be anything- remember that cellar full of hobgoblins we found?”

  “I must go? But you’re coming with me?”

  “No, I must go south. I may already be too late. But call me if you really need my assistance. I don’t think you shall.”

  And that settled it. He had four more days until his break, but he might be able to move that up. He would have to call the sergeant tonight.

  And he would have to get an early start.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Sleeping Knights

  1

  Eight Years Before . . .

  At seven thirty a.m. the clock radio dragged Daniel Tully out of a deep sleep. Just another ordinary day. Ordinary and dreadful.

  No, today was different-something happened today. It was his birthday. This woke him up. He turned off the radio alarm and climbed out of bed. Hunting around his room, he searched for the cleanest and least-wrinkled shirt and trousers he could find and put them on. Then he pulled his school jumper over them and went downstairs.

  He was the only one awake, as usual, and the kitchen table- where he had once seen presents piled on top of each other several years earlier-was empty. He wandered into the living room and saw nothing on the small dining table either. He went back to the kitchen, kicking his feet.

  He put some bread in the toaster and started making coffee.

  Wrinkling his nose at the earthy smell as he spooned the raw, dirt-coloured grounds into the percolator, he vowed once more to never drink coffee as long as he lived. He flicked the power button on, wondering if his mum would think about him when she drank it and if she would re
member what today was. Maybe he’d get some extra presents out of guilt. It was possible, but unlikely.

  He ate his toast and looked out of the kitchen window into the tiny sliver of a garden. It was still quite dark. He didn’t like this time of year-he had to go to school in the dark, and also come home in the dark.

  It’s not fair, he thought. And then, because he could and he knew it’d make him feel better, he said the words out loud. “It’s not fair.”

  He wondered what sort of day it was going to be. And then, with a flash of dread, he realised that today was also the field trip. He also realised that he hadn’t handed in his permission slip.

  He went into the hall and rummaged around on the side table. It must be here-he remembered seeing it. Yes, stuck underneath a strata of bills and junk mail was the blue, wrinkled permission slip with a blank space where his mum’s signature should be. He hurried back into the kitchen and looked at the clock on the oven. He had about five minutes. Plucking a pen from the mug on the counter, he rushed back upstairs and stood in front of his mother’s door and listened. He could hear faint breathing. He gently knocked on the door, which was open slightly.

  “Mum?” he said.

  There was no reply.

  “Mum?” he said, louder.

  There was a very muffled and tired moan. “Whuh ’zit?”

  “Mum, I need your signature on something for school. There’s a class trip today.”

  Silence.

  “Mum?”

  “L’ve it d’nstairs. Uh’ll sign it when uh get up.”

  Daniel stood quietly for a moment. He needed the signature now, not later. He thought about the first of the two options now before him. He really didn’t want to go into the bedroom and try to persuade his mother to sign the slip now. He would probably have to actually push the pen into her hand and if he didn’t handle it right, there would be a “scene.” Also, he was starting to think that there was someone lying next to her.

  No, it was far easier to do the second thing. He hurried back downstairs and put the slip on the kitchen counter, then uncapped the pen he was holding. He looked at the paper for a second and then exhaled. In a quick, confident burst of motion, he wrote his mother’s name in a suitably grown-up and illegible manner: Elaine Tully. He regarded the slip. Not his best work perhaps, but it would do. The trick was not in trying to make it look exactly like her real signature, but in making it confident.

  He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. No, he reflected, the real trick isn’t the signature-it’s in making all the teachers believe that you were the sort of boy who would never even think about faking his mum’s signature. And that meant, as so many things in life, keeping your head down.

  He picked up his school bag, fished out his gym clothes (wouldn’t need those), and thought about signatures and permission slips. Where did they all go? What happened to them? Were they all put in a file somewhere? Did anyone really check them?

  Would this little scrap of paper be scrutinised against all the others- checked for authenticity by a man in a white coat with a giant magnifying glass in a brightly lit room? By now there must be more of his fake signatures on all these different slips and documents than his mother’s real one. To the school office his forgeries were more authentic than the genuine article.

  He was just checking that his keys were in his pocket when his eyes fell on something unusual. He and his mum didn’t get a lot of mail other than bills, but there, on the floor beneath the front door, was a red envelope. He was so surprised that he actually took a half step back and then bent down to pick it up.

  He turned it over and looked at who it was addressed to-it was to him. Someone had remembered his birthday.

  There wasn’t any sender’s address on the envelope, and he didn’t recognise the block capital handwriting on it. Quickly, he thrust it into his jacket. It felt like a secret, and he wanted to keep it to himself as long as possible.

  All the way to school he thought about the envelope. It might be from Nan, his mum’s mum, but she didn’t really go in for that sort of thing-she was more forgetful than his own mother. It could be from Grandma and Grandpa Tully, but he hadn’t seen them in three or four years, since the separation.

  He could see that the coach was already waiting when he got to school. He sighed. He’d actually prefer a day of the ordinary routine rather than having to navigate the chaos of a field trip. For a moment he considered not going, but last time that meant he’d had to join another class for a day-a dangerous and unknown social minefield. He handed his permission slip to Miss Singh and got on the bus, sitting down in the first pair of seats that weren’t occupied and sliding over by the window.

  He sat there unmoving, trying to be a part of the background, holding his breath when anyone passed by. Eventually the coach was nearly full and he thought he’d gotten away with it, but just as Miss Singh had crossed the last name off her list, a group of girls-who had already passed him-came back up the aisle and stood at his seat.

  “Look,” said one of them. “If we get him to move, we can all sit together. Hey, Daniel.”

  He pretended not to hear.

  “Daniel!”

  He turned and saw Callie Johnson bending towards him. “Hi, do you mind moving so that we can all sit together?”

  “Where to?” he asked, playing for time.

  “I don’t care, you little freak,” Callie said in a low voice, leaning towards him. “Just leave.” The girls behind her giggled. He heard one of them mutter the word “outrageous.”

  Daniel wasn’t fazed. “I’m fine here,” he said.

  “Find a seat, girls,” Miss Singh called down the aisle.

  Callie Johnson leaned closer into Daniel. “Move,” she growled, “or I’ll sit next to you and pinch your arm till it falls off.”

  Daniel turned to look out the window.

  “Girls, find a seat,” said Miss Singh, coming towards them.

  “Move!” Callie growled under her breath.

  He didn’t. Callie couldn’t do anything else until Miss Singh reached them. Her last chance would be to protest the unjustness of Daniel’s attitude and try to make the teacher move him-which she might.

  However, as Callie turned towards the advancing Miss Singh, someone pushed past her and slid into the seat beside Daniel.

  “This seat free? Mind if I take it? Thanks.”

  “Freya?” said Callie, appalled. “What the-? I was going to sit there!”

  “If you were going to, you would have already,” Freya replied curtly.

  Miss Singh had reached them. “Okay, girls, find a seat. Now.”

  With no hope of being able to shift two people from their seats, the group of four was forced to disperse with groans of annoyance.

  “Thanks,” said Daniel to Freya, once the coach had started and they were on their way.

  “No problem,” said Freya. “Callie and her posse are acting like real cows these days. I can’t stand them. Besides,” she said, giving him a wide smile, “I know a secret.”

  “I know you do,” said Daniel.

  “It’s your birthday,” Freya said in a low voice.

  “I know.”

  “Do you know how I know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because it’s my birthday too,” Freya said, her smile widening even further.

  “Happy birthday,” Daniel said miserably.

  “Remember when we were in First Year together and they threw us both a party?”

  “Barely.”

  “Well, I remember it.” She smiled. “Did you get anything nice?”

  “Sure, lots of stuff.”

  “Did you bring anything with you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I did. Look . . .” Freya pulled a silver necklace with a teardrop-shaped pendant out from beneath her school jumper.

  “It’s nice,” Daniel said.

  “Thanks. It’s from Mum and Dad. What did you get?”

  “Wha
t is this all of a sudden? You haven’t talked to me in a year, and now we’re best friends?”

  “If you don’t want me here, I’ll switch seats with Callie . . .”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just saying . . .”

  “So what did you get?”

  “I told you, lots of stuff. Look.” Daniel pulled out the red envelope from his jacket pocket.

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Don’t know,” said Daniel. “Haven’t opened it.”

  “Well, go on then. What are you waiting for?”

  Daniel shrugged. “You do it,” he said, chucking the card into her lap.

  “Okay,” she said, sliding her finger underneath the envelope’s flap and ripping it open.

  Daniel watched as she pulled out a shiny card that had a brightly coloured picture of a dancing clown on it. It was a kid’s card, not a card for someone who’d just turned thirteen.

  “Do you want to read it or shall I?” Freya held the card up, and Daniel watched a crinkled slip of heavy, rectangular paper slide out the bottom of it and onto her lap. She picked it up and passed it to Daniel. It was a ten-pound note.

  “You read it,” he said, folding the money and sliding it into his shirt pocket. Freya opened the card.

  “‘To Daniel,’ ” she read. “ ‘Happy birthday, from your dad.’”

  “That’s it?” Daniel said, leaning towards her.

  Freya handed the card to him. “Doesn’t say much, does he?”

  Daniel gave a jerky shrug. “The last time I heard from him was three years ago. Today he sends me a card with some money in it.”

  Daniel heard himself say those words and felt wretchedly sorry for himself. Three years-three whole years, and then what?

  Ten pounds and a crappy card with a stupid clown on it with a mocking, leering laugh. His hands clenched and he tore up the card, dropping its twisted pieces on the floor beneath his feet.

  He turned his face to the window, eyes hot, tears threatening to drip down his face.

  Freya sat quietly next to him and didn’t say a word until they reached the church.