“Slow down,” he panted. His teeth were aching so much that he could hardly think, and every wound that had been inflicted by the Holy Harp was prickling with pain. Petty slowed down, and leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath.
“They’re not coming after us, are they?”
Josh shook his head. “Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe they’re waiting for us in this world.”
They turned the next corner in the passageway. Petty said, in bewilderment, “We’re back where we started from.”
“That’s right. That’s the way the doors work. You’re not going from one place to another. You’re going from one reality into another.”
They stepped out into Star Yard. It was raining hard and there was almost nobody around. Josh took Petty to the derelict building in which he and Nancy had first escaped from the dog-handlers, and they hid themselves in a corner office, listening all day and all night to the rain beating on the ceiling above their heads, and cascading down the stairs.
Petty fell asleep, her head resting against Josh’s shoulder, one clogged-up nostril whistling. Josh was exhausted, reality-lagged, but he still found it almost impossible to sleep. He kept thinking of the Hooded Man’s head, when he had torn his hood open. The sight had overwhelmed him. More than that, it had dropped open a trapdoor beneath his feet, so that he could no longer be sure of what was believable and what wasn’t. It was just as if his father and mother had suddenly dragged latex masks off their heads when he was thirteen years old, and shown themselves to be two hideous-looking strangers.
Petty stirred and touched his shoulder. “What time is it?” she asked him, without opening her eyes.
“Seven and a half hours to go. Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep.”
An hour later, he heard drums rattling. The Hooded Men, on patrol. They came up Chancery Lane toward Holborn, but they didn’t stop. If Josh knew anything about dogs, they wouldn’t have stopped to sniff them out, not in this weather. All they wanted was a dry kennel and a bowl of food.
The rain stopped. Josh fell asleep at last, with his head tilted back. He woke up at five o’clock in the morning with a raging sore throat and a crick in his neck.
“Have we got any food?” asked Petty.
Twenty-Five
Nancy opened her eyes and was aware at once of the utter silence. Complete, flawless silence. She was lying on an iron-framed bed in a hospital room with cream-painted walls and a light green dado. She knew it was a hospital room because it smelled of hospitals: antiseptic and boiled vegetables. The only other furniture was an oak-veneered nightstand with a glass of water on it, an oak-veneered closet, and a green armchair. For some inexplicable reason, she felt that somebody had recently been sitting in the green armchair, watching her.
Her head felt thick, as if she had been drinking too much red wine. She tried to lift her head but she felt swimmy and nauseous, so she lay back on the pillow again. It was a big pillow, with a starched pillowcase, and it reminded her of staying in hospital when she was a child. Homesick, and alone.
She turned toward the window. Outside, she could see the upper branches of some tall elm trees, and some angular rooftops, and chimneys. Even if she had been familiar with London, she wouldn’t have been able to tell where she was. The sky was clear blue, with only a few high clouds in it, unraveling themselves in the upper atmosphere like skeins of white cotton. And it was silent. She couldn’t even hear any traffic.
She tried to think what had happened to her. The last moment she could remember was Frank Mordant hitting her. After that, all she could recall was a jumble of voices and a kaleidoscope of faces.
An hour went past. The sun moved across the window. Still there was silence. She tried to keep her eyes open but she couldn’t, and she slept. She had a dream that she was walking along a desolate seashore, with the tide gradually coming in. It was foggy, and she knew that it was getting late, and that it was time for her to turn back. But up ahead of her she could see a hooded figure, and felt that she had to catch up with it, and ask it if it could tell her where Josh was. She was deeply afraid of it, this figure, the way it walked through the fog with its robes curling and flapping, but she knew that there was no alternative. She hurried across the hard, ribbed sand, even though the water was already starting to surge across her shoes.
The figure stopped. She slowed down, and cautiously circled around it, until she was facing it.
“I know what you want,” the figure said, in a hollow whisper. “I know what you’ve always wanted.”
It reached inside its robes and drew out a yard-long poker, the tip of which was red-hot and crackling with tiny sparks. “You want the Five Holy Cauterizations, don’t you? Eyes, tongue, and ears – the greater to seal your purity.”
She wanted to turn and run, but she couldn’t. All she could do was sink slowly to her knees in the chilly seawater as the figure slowly approached her, the poker held aloft. She could actually smell the overheated iron.
“The supplicant always has a choice,” the figure whispered. “You can decide which cauterization you will enjoy first, and which last. You’d be surprised how many leave the tongue till last, so that even when they’re deaf and blind, they can still curse the Lord that made them.”
The figure was standing right over her now, its robes stirring in the breeze. The seawater swilled around her knees. She lifted her head and stared defiantly into the blackness of its hood. “You can do whatever you damn well like,” she told it.
“Well, that’s jolly generous of you,” said another voice. She opened her eyes. She wasn’t on the seashore at all, but lying in her hospital bed. Frank Mordant was standing not far away, his hands in his pockets, beaming. Two other men stood much closer, both of them dressed in starched white collars and black coats and gray pinstripe pants, like bankers. One of them had wiry gray hair and gold pince-nez that were perched on a bulbous, port-wine-colored nose. The other was young, with a neck like a heron and a dark, downy moustache.
“What am I doing here?” asked Nancy, thick-tongued. She tried to sit up but the older man gently reached out and pushed her back on to the pillow.
“You ought to rest,” he told her, with an avuncular smile. “Conserve your energy.”
“I want to get out of here, that’s all. I want to go back to where I came from.”
“You did go back to where you came from,” said Frank Mordant, still beaming. “But then you decided to return, didn’t you, and make a nuisance of yourself. Your choice, darling. You can hardly put the blame on me. We all have to cover our asses – as you Yanks put it – don’t we?”
“So what are you going to do? Are you going to murder me, the way you murdered Julia?” She turned to the two men in black coats. “Did you know that? Did you know that he was a murderer? He admitted it to me. He confessed.”
Frank Mordant stepped forward and laid one hand on each of the men’s shoulders. “Perhaps I ought to introduce you, Miss Andersen. This is Mr Brindsley Leggett, senior surgeon here at the Puritan Martyrs Hospital, and this is Mr Andrew Crane, his junior.”
“He confessed to me,” Nancy insisted. “He told me that he’s been hanging women and making goddamned videos while they die!”
“Come on, now,” said Mr Leggett. “You’ve been through a very disturbing experience. I’m not at all surprised that you’ve been suffering from misapprehensions. My goodness, if it had happened to me …!”
“You’re trying to say that I’m sick? If there’s anybody who’s sick around here, it’s Frank Mordant! He’s a killer, I tell you! I can prove it!”