The loft was even more extraordinary. The beams of the ceiling overhead were brilliantly polished, but also stained with time. They now looked like ancient ribs of wood. The roof was alive with a suffused light, like the sparks in a bonfire, as if the smoke of generations was up here. The room was now lined with previously unperceived chests and chairs and other pieces of furniture. The pile of soil was glittering, twitching with stringy golden light, like scribbled lines of writing or of music. Sefton couldn’t look at it, because it confused his eyes. But he still found himself wanting to get to grips with it, for that would be the only way you could cope. It was only frightening because he didn’t know enough. This stuff had been. . hiding. It was a language of hidden things and of people. . people like Mora Losley.
Costain was also gazing around, sizing the place up. Too much to cope with. He’d made a deal with himself about that as he’d headed back into the city and only seen more and more mad shit. He knew what the boundaries were, and what the way out was, so he was in. It was more the case that there was just too much evidence here, meaning it was the opposite of Goodfellow. . oh! ‘This is where all the Goodfellow juice was,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t see certain things about Rob’s life, ’cos they were. . hidden from us, literally.’
‘And now we’re wallowing in it,’ muttered Quill.
‘Trouble is, we can’t show it to anyone else.’
‘Maybe we should get other coppers to touch that soil?’
‘That Scene of Crime Officer said she had, and she was her usual cynical self. I don’t think she was seeing this.’
‘So what’s so special about us?’
Costain saw that Ross reacted to that, with a sharp little look of fear. But she kept her silence. He turned, as they all did, at a sudden noise from the darkness over against the far wall. A noise and a movement in the shadows, only a small movement. A rat? No. .
A black cat came stepping cautiously towards them. It had rough, matted hair, stained with something sticky and dark. Its eyes were green, and they seemed bigger than a cat’s eyes ever should be. It was also looking at them in a way which didn’t seem to be how cats normally looked at things.
‘What’s happened?’ it said. It had an extraordinarily upper-class accent, like some radio announcer from the past.
They stared at it.
‘What are you doing here?’ it went on.
They continued to stare at it. Costain couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He was struggling just to stop himself from running. What was stopping him was the thought that that would be seen as a terrified rout, a shaming of himself, and putting a target on his back as he went. And the fact that what had sent him running was merely a cat.
‘Wait here,’ said the cat. ‘I’ll get her.’ It scampered back through the hole it had emerged from.
Costain heard what sounded like enormous, distant doors opening, the sound echoing down impossible corridors. Where had it gone anyway? To the house next door? No, they’d seen who lived next door. There was nothing beyond this attic. But there’d been nothing inside this attic either, the first time.
And then there was a different kind of distant echo. It was the sound of something moving. Something disturbing the air. Something moving back along that hole towards them. And the smell that started coming out of the hole, before it-
It was coming. Costain realized, and he sensed the others recognize with him the horrible, terminal mistake they had all made. The end of the horror movie was here now, and they were the victims. They had assumed this house was empty, when all the time. . she was still at home.
Fast footsteps now, marching along, echoing from out of that small darkness. The darkness got bigger, changed shape. . unfolded itself until it fitted neatly into the entire corner.
Costain took a step back, as he looked to Quill for guidance. The others were doing the same. There were fellow coppers downstairs, loads of them to provide a world of back-up. But they wouldn’t be able to see this.
Quill knew he was hesitating, and hesitating terribly. He was thinking that, actually, no matter what this was, he wanted to see it, he wanted to get line of sight on a suspect, make a positive identification. But that was just copper arrogance, wasn’t it, that whatever you knew about you could deal with? Was he about to get his team killed? Through lack of intel. . a staggering lack of intel. Through him getting pissed. They should get out of here now, ’cos they were blown, exposed. He started to say that-
But suddenly there was a door there. A real door forming out of nothing. It glistened red. The door that he had spotted over there only as a transitory glimpse before. It now stayed there, silent, for a moment, then it swung slowly open.
And something impossible yet also obviously the woman called Mora Losley stepped into the room. But she didn’t look like that photo of her. She wasn’t like anything Quill had ever seen. She was wearing her real face now.
They all cried out. Just like that. They cried out like children at the sight of her.
Quill thought she looked older than it was possible for anyone to be. The skin of her face and arms was blackened as if she was bruised all over, where blotches of blood had flowed together. She was almost bald, with only tiny wisps of hair. Her skin was wrinkled as much as any human skin could be. Every angle of her jutted, every bone seemed mis-set. Her lips were cracked. Her teeth were pointed. Animating all that was simple power. Muscles like pistons. Fingers that looked strong enough to pull flesh from bone. Fingers that pinched together in the air. And yet there was something sickly sweet about her, too, a sense of. . familiarity. She was like something terrible found in a comfortable old library, and it felt like a horrible lure, that sense of comfort — the rosy apple of the past. Her eyes were milky and bitter, but also sullen and hurt like a teenager’s.
The cat had come back out too, staying behind her.
She took two precise steps towards them, like a dinosaur in an old film. She didn’t seem to be in any pain from all those lesions and sores. Instead, she pushed the pain outwards all around her, so as to make everyone else feel it. Her shadow, Quill realized, made the floor steam, killed something in the rugs with every step, contributed to the fug rising to the ceiling. The smell hit him then: cut grass made into compost, polish and sewerage, wine on the edge of becoming vinegar.
She was eyeing at them, considering them. They had surprised her, he understood, for she wasn’t used to being seen.
To his own surprise, he found his voice. ‘Are you Mora Losley?’
She looked at him as if it was astonishing and humiliating to hear her name coming from him. She laughed, and it was a witch’s laugh. Not like witches did in children’s television. That was only a distant, safe memory of this. Her laugh sounded like small bones caught in an old throat. As if she was on the verge of choking, only she wasn’t feeling the threat of that — only you were. ‘You touched the soil,’ she said, as if she’d just worked it out. ‘My mistress’ blessed soil. I will now have to clean it. And you have a “protocol” on you. It’s reacted.’ She sounded like a profoundly deaf person, and the shape of her mouth was doing violence to the words. Whatever ‘protocol’ meant, she was holding it at arm’s length, as if the word was as unfamiliar to her as it was to Quill. Her accent was strange. It sounded very London, but not from anywhere that Quill could pin down. There was something almost American about it, except America was new, and this was. . old beyond old. ‘You have the Sight now.’ Quill was about to try to frame a question about what that meant in terms of them seeing stuff, when her eyes narrowed. ‘I know you.’
Quill looked over his shoulder to see who she was looking at.