around him. He wiped what felt like cobwebs from his eyes. “That’s wrong, though. I’m Gideon.”
“It isn’t wrong. Do you understand, Guardian Frayne, that this world is stranger than anything you could imagine? That there is no golow ha tewlder , no light and dark?”
“I’m a policeman. Of course I know that.” Every time he arrested one bad bastard or another for some heinous crime, out would come the story. A rotten childhood, a broken home. A lost job, debt, addiction... All the nuances of twilight that brought decent men from daylight into the dark. “That’s not what you mean, though, is it?”
“No. Even your preacher brother knows it by now. Think how you’ve protected them—the little girl, the hooligan, the junkie. You don’t mix up the light with goodness, or darkness with the bad. And so the creatures show themselves to you, and so they’ll stay near you—you and the Tyack boy, and your child—like beasts on an old-fashioned shield.”
Gideon could hear sirens. They brought him to surface, from waters so deep he’d been losing his sense of the shore. “I don’t understand.”
“I know. But one day you will. Oh, in the meantime I have a message from Dev Bowe for you. He told me last time I visited him in hospital. He wants you to have the Lowen house on Morgan hill.”
“Right.” It was best to keep a suicide talking, no matter how surreal the topic. “Is he gonna buy us some lottery tickets, then?”
“Oh, there’ll be no need for that. Hadn’t you better go and see what all those sirens are about?”
“No. I’ve got to stay and look after you.”
“Well, I promise faithfully to sit here until you get back. Go on, Guardian Frayne. Save the day.”
Police, fire and ambulance. Gideon knew all their songs. More than one crying out into a Cornish night meant trouble, more than a car prang or childbirth, more than a cat—or an old lady—stuck in a tree. Drawn to their symphony, he took one step and then another towards the empty window frame. The back of the warehouse looked right out over Penzance, all the way to St Michael’s Mount in the east.
The town was on fire. “Jesus Christ,” Gideon whispered, clambering out through the window. He jumped, and landed hard on the waste ground six feet below. Spinning blue lights were threading the streetlamps and torch flares. They were homing in on Chybucca Square, an open space where the Midwinter Fire procession would stop to watch dance troupes, buy roast chestnuts and sample mulled wine from the stalls. The bank and both buildings flanking it were ablaze, smaller fires breaking out as people backed away in terror, dropping torches in their wake. Out of habit, Gideon scanned the scene for its focal point, the cause of all these effects.
Yes—there on the seaward side of the square, pouring out of the narrow road that led to the bus station. From this distance he couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if DI Lawrence’s busloads of out-of-town kids had made it to the party after all. They were grabbing torches from the hands of the revellers, chucking the brands into shop doorways and directly into the crowd. And bloody Darren Prowse had sent him off the wrong way.
Then, if he’d stayed in the streets below, he’d never have seen what was going on. The Beast, the Lord of Misrule, and Old Penglas... Higher and higher, each one of them had brought him, and in the wrong direction, but from here he had a bird’s-eye view. He pulled out his mobile and dialled the inspector’s number. She answered on the first ring, sounding frayed and grim. “They’re coming in from the bus station,” Gideon told her. “You need to send as many lads as you can down to Chybucca Square, and some of the local boys to block off access from station. From here it looks like they’ll need riot gear. I’m on my way down.”
Shit, he’d forgotten about Granny Ragwen. He ran back to the window, grabbed the ledge and hoisted himself up far
“It isn’t wrong. Do you understand, Guardian Frayne, that this world is stranger than anything you could imagine? That there is no golow ha tewlder , no light and dark?”
“I’m a policeman. Of course I know that.” Every time he arrested one bad bastard or another for some heinous crime, out would come the story. A rotten childhood, a broken home. A lost job, debt, addiction... All the nuances of twilight that brought decent men from daylight into the dark. “That’s not what you mean, though, is it?”
“No. Even your preacher brother knows it by now. Think how you’ve protected them—the little girl, the hooligan, the junkie. You don’t mix up the light with goodness, or darkness with the bad. And so the creatures show themselves to you, and so they’ll stay near you—you and the Tyack boy, and your child—like beasts on an old-fashioned shield.”
Gideon could hear sirens. They brought him to surface, from waters so deep he’d been losing his sense of the shore. “I don’t understand.”
“I know. But one day you will. Oh, in the meantime I have a message from Dev Bowe for you. He told me last time I visited him in hospital. He wants you to have the Lowen house on Morgan hill.”
“Right.” It was best to keep a suicide talking, no matter how surreal the topic. “Is he gonna buy us some lottery tickets, then?”
“Oh, there’ll be no need for that. Hadn’t you better go and see what all those sirens are about?”
“No. I’ve got to stay and look after you.”
“Well, I promise faithfully to sit here until you get back. Go on, Guardian Frayne. Save the day.”
Police, fire and ambulance. Gideon knew all their songs. More than one crying out into a Cornish night meant trouble, more than a car prang or childbirth, more than a cat—or an old lady—stuck in a tree. Drawn to their symphony, he took one step and then another towards the empty window frame. The back of the warehouse looked right out over Penzance, all the way to St Michael’s Mount in the east.
The town was on fire. “Jesus Christ,” Gideon whispered, clambering out through the window. He jumped, and landed hard on the waste ground six feet below. Spinning blue lights were threading the streetlamps and torch flares. They were homing in on Chybucca Square, an open space where the Midwinter Fire procession would stop to watch dance troupes, buy roast chestnuts and sample mulled wine from the stalls. The bank and both buildings flanking it were ablaze, smaller fires breaking out as people backed away in terror, dropping torches in their wake. Out of habit, Gideon scanned the scene for its focal point, the cause of all these effects.
Yes—there on the seaward side of the square, pouring out of the narrow road that led to the bus station. From this distance he couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if DI Lawrence’s busloads of out-of-town kids had made it to the party after all. They were grabbing torches from the hands of the revellers, chucking the brands into shop doorways and directly into the crowd. And bloody Darren Prowse had sent him off the wrong way.
Then, if he’d stayed in the streets below, he’d never have seen what was going on. The Beast, the Lord of Misrule, and Old Penglas... Higher and higher, each one of them had brought him, and in the wrong direction, but from here he had a bird’s-eye view. He pulled out his mobile and dialled the inspector’s number. She answered on the first ring, sounding frayed and grim. “They’re coming in from the bus station,” Gideon told her. “You need to send as many lads as you can down to Chybucca Square, and some of the local boys to block off access from station. From here it looks like they’ll need riot gear. I’m on my way down.”
Shit, he’d forgotten about Granny Ragwen. He ran back to the window, grabbed the ledge and hoisted himself up far
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