The Beacon (Earth Haven Book 2) Page 4

  The final door opened to a small airing cupboard. She had become so accustomed to the musty odour that she barely noticed it. She grabbed a few folded towels and added them to the pile by the stairs. Pushing past more towels on the airing cupboard shelf, she found the last item she needed: a white cotton sheet.

  Bundling everything into her arms, she struggled back downstairs.

  The boy had lain back on the settee, eyes closed. The empty cola can stood on the floor. She kicked it aside and dumped everything onto the carpet.

  “Right,” she said briskly. “Clothes off.”

  * * * * *

  The woman stirred and came to full awareness for the first time in weeks. She turned onto her back and stretched. Joints popped and crackled like logs on a fire, sinews tightened and muscles clenched. No pain. It felt good.

  Diane Heidler opened her eyes and waited for her vision to adjust to the gloom of her surroundings. She was lying in a double bed in a room cast in shadow by closed, heavy curtains. The darkness was too familiar. It was all she could remember since standing at the door of the Sea King helicopter in the instant before the fuel tanks exploded. Darkness interspersed by agony-wracked moments of wakefulness during which she had eaten every morsel of food brought to her lips before slipping back into the pit.

  She craved light.

  Wincing in anticipation of fresh bolts of pain, Diane kicked back the duvet and swung her legs to the floor. The pain did not come. Stiffly, accompanied by more brittle noises from her joints, she stood and tottered to the curtains. Drawing them aside, she blinked as weak daylight entered the room.

  She looked out onto a grey coastal town. The window was double- or triple-glazed and no draughts or sound intruded, but she didn’t need to feel or hear the wind. Litter and dead leaves swirled in flurries and accumulated in doorways. One or two strands of Christmas lights strung across the street had blown loose. The masts of boats she could make out in the harbour rocked and swayed. Gulls swooped and circled, barely needing to flap their wings. The sky glowered, low and rain-heavy, the colour of smudged print.

  She turned back to the room. A trouser-press attached to a wall; a notice outlining fire escapes; sachets of coffee next to a small kettle and long-life milk in plastic containers, the type that spray the contents in all directions when opened carelessly. A hotel room.

  Diane crossed back to the bed and sat. She glanced down to see that she was wearing some sort of over-sized pyjamas. They hung from her emaciated frame like a dust sheet on a hat stand. She felt depleted, like an overused tea bag, and what she was about to do would weaken her further. She couldn’t do it standing up.

  Closing her eyes, Diane set her mind free. She didn’t need to send it far. He was in the same building, a little way below her. He noted her presence immediately.

  Feeling better? Peter sent.

  Yes she sent back. But weak. Hungry.

  I’ll fix you some food. There are clothes in the wardrobe. Ceri picked them out. Hope they fit. Go now, before you overdo it.

  Diane reeled her mind in and leaned back on the bed, breathing shallowly, almost panting. It took a few minutes before she felt sufficiently recovered to sit up. Minutes more to be able to stand. The room darkened and she swayed. She waited until the light had returned and the room had stopped spinning before making her way unsteadily to the wardrobe.

  Without paying too much attention to the clothes she found hanging there, she began to dress.

  * * * * *

  The hotel was fitted with a modern kitchen, all stainless steel and gleaming in the thin light that entered through the windows, but did not have its own generator so they prepared food on Peter’s camping stove. They preferred to do this in the bar area where they could enjoy the warmth of the fire.

  Ceri was roused from her light slumber by the clatter of crockery and the fizz of the stove’s gas flame. She glanced at Tom. His empty glass was on the floor by the side of his chair and his head lolled to one side. He snored softly. Dusty lay at his feet, sleeping soundly, too.

  The fire gave off a rich orange glow. Ceri stood and placed a fresh log onto the embers. She walked to the bar and took a stool in front of the long oak counter.

  Peter was behind the bar, frying slices of pink, processed meat in a black skillet. An opened tin of potatoes stood next to a saucepan ready to be heated. He smiled at her.

  “You hungry?”

  Ceri shook her head. “Only been a couple of hours since lunch.” She nodded towards the skillet. Judging from the number of thick, sizzling slices of meat that filled it, a whole tin had gone in there. “You must be.”

  Peter’s smile narrowed a little. “This isn’t for me. Diane’s woken up. She’ll be down presently.”

  “You’ve been upstairs. . . . ?”

  “No.” Peter’s smile faded entirely as though he didn’t like to be reminded of how different he was from her.

  “Ah,” said Ceri. “Tell me, Peter. . . .” She leaned forward, resting her arms on the rich wood, “. . . if you can communicate by telepathy, why bother speaking at all?”

  “Well, to communicate with you and Tom without speaking, you’d have to open your minds to let me in. Like you did when I showed you our arrival on this planet, remember?”

  Ceri nodded, recalling sitting cross-legged in the middle of a road in mid Wales, holding hands with Peter and Tom, the fluttering sensation in her mind that she could have kept out but allowed in, the stream of images. . . .

  “But it would be a little pointless,” continued Peter, “since you’d have to speak to reply.”

  “Yes, okay,” said Ceri. “But you and Diane could hold entire conversations without talking?”

  “We could. But we won’t.” Peter lifted the skillet and set it to one side. He emptied the tin of potatoes into the saucepan and placed it on the stove. “For a start, it would be like you and Tom conversing in front of me in Welsh. It would be a little rude considering I can’t speak the language.”

  “Crap analogy. I can’t speak it either. And I don’t think Tom can.” Ceri shrugged. “Learning it was on my to-do list. I’ll have to rename it the no-point-doing-now list.”

  “You’re right: crap analogy. There’s a much more compelling reason Diane and I won’t hold conversations that way. You see, having the ability to communicate with our minds can be useful, particularly over large distances. But there’s a downside.”

  Ceri grunted. “Isn’t there always?”

  “I guess it’s all about balance,” said Peter. “Setting our minds free to roam employs a great deal of energy. Even when we combine our psyches, like during a Commune, it drains our energy reserves so much that we have to eat like pubescent teenagers to replenish them. Or soak up sunlight, though there’s not much of that in Britain during the winter months.”

  “Ha! Nor the summer months.”

  “True enough. Someone like Milandra who leads the Commune and who holds the sum total of my people’s knowledge within her psyche has to eat a prodigious amount of food. It’s why she’s rather, er, rotund. It’s essential she has physical energy reserves to be able to constantly replenish her mental energies. And it’s why she normally lives in a sunny place like Florida.” He took a spoon and stirred the potatoes. “The gas in this cooker has almost gone. I noticed a camping shop when I was out. We’ll have to pay a visit and replenish our supplies.”

  Ceri turned at the sound of Tom approaching. He took a stool next to her and yawned.

  “I must have dropped off for a minute or two,” he said.

  “More like an hour,” said Peter with a grin.

  “Tom,” said Ceri, trying not to sound anxious. “Diane has woken up. She’s coming down now.”

  “Well, perhaps in a few minutes,” said Peter.

  “That’s what I meant,” said Ceri. “Now. In a few minutes.”

  “This food’s for her,” said Peter. “I was just explaining to Ceri how communicating with our minds saps our energy. Diane contacted m
e from upstairs. Since she’s weak anyway from all the healing she’s had to do, just that few moments of mental communication will have pushed her back to the point of exhaustion. She’ll need this food. And more.”

  Ceri was watching Tom’s expression. All traces of sleepiness had disappeared. His brow furrowed in a deep frown.

  “Are you sure about her, Peter?” he said deliberately. “Really sure?”

  Peter nodded. “We’ve been through this. I probed her while she was unconscious. Not the most gentlemanly of actions, but. . . .” He shrugged. “Needs must. I saw everything that happened in the cabin of the helicopter. Bishop was the one who wanted to kill us, not her.”

  “But she was with him!”

  “And if she hadn’t been, we’d likely be dead now. Tom, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. Diane Heidler saved our lives.”

  “But for what?” The voice, thin and reedy, came from behind Tom and Ceri. They spun round on their stools. The woman stood at the foot of the staircase, clutching the banister as though without it she would not have the strength to stand. “I might as well have let him kill you,” she said. “I’ve only postponed the inevitable. Mankind’s time is up.”

  Chapter Four

  By splashing water onto towels to dampen them, and wrapping the bar of soap inside the towels, she eked out the contents of the kettle sufficiently to get the boy cleaned up. When she had finished, the soap was worn to a grubby blob and three hand towels that looked as though they had been trodden into a patch of mud lay on the floor next to a pile of stinking clothing.

  With the grime removed, the boy looked thin, pale and prepubescent. Maybe aged nine or ten. She rolled the deodorant under his arms and liberally powdered his torso with talc, making him look even paler. Wraithlike. He shivered and didn’t demur when she pulled the heavy metal tee-shirt over his head. Being careful to avoid the cut on his right calf, she eased on the underpants to cover his modesty, then turned him onto his stomach.

  She poured the last of the water from the kettle onto his calf and wiped away the dried blood with a fresh towel. To her inexperienced eye, the cut looked clean. The edges were not ragged or inflamed. The cut was about three inches long, across the meatiest part of the calf, and stood proud of the white skin around it. Watery blood started to pool at the surface. She picked up the bottle of gin and unscrewed the top.

  “This might sting,” she said.

  Using one hand to spread the edges of the cut apart, she sloshed the spirit generously into the narrow opening. The boy drew in a sharp breath and stiffened, but didn’t kick out or try to draw away.

  Putting the bottle to one side, she went back into the kitchen and returned with a vegetable knife and tin opener. She had brought a tin opener with her from Cornwall but figured that having another wouldn’t hurt. Losing her parents and brother, her friends, and everyone else she knew, that hurt. The pain nestled like a boulder in her stomach, too big to expel. She hurriedly pushed the thought away. In the long, lonely days in Looe after pulling out of her illness, before the compulsion to come to London had overpowered her, she had grown used to carrying that boulder. It didn’t diminish the hurt, but made it a little easier to bear. Giving in to grief might lessen the pain, but until she could find somewhere she felt safe, grieving would have to wait.

  She used the knife to cut a strip from the cotton sheet and bound the boy’s calf as tightly as she dared. He lay still, hissing through his teeth when she pulled the sheet tight, but allowing her to work on his leg without interference. For a few moments she stared at the impromptu bandage, expecting it to bloom pink then red as fresh blood seeped from the cut. To her relief it remained white.

  Once the boy was dressed, his shivering subsided. The trainers were a little big, but laced tightly they would stay on and would do for now. She took a painkiller from the packet she’d found in the bathroom cabinet and placed it on the boy’s tongue.

  “Swallow,” she said.

  The boy grimaced, but obeyed.

  She opened the tins of food from the kitchen, drooling as she did so. The boy watched her attentively, his tongue coming out to lick his lips. In clean clothes and without a coating of grime, he looked less like an extra from the cast of Oliver. She turned the food into bowls and they ate it cold. Vegetable soup, tuna, red kidney beans in chilli sauce; not the best of combinations, but they emptied their bowls in minutes. They washed it down with the bottle of water from her backpack.

  Once they had finished, she sat back and regarded the boy solemnly.

  “So,” she said, “what’s your name?”

  The boy stared at her, expressionless.

  “Name?” She sighed. “My name’s Brianne, but everyone calls me Bri. Like brie the cheese, only without the e.”

  No clue showed on the boy’s face of his thought processes, or even whether he had them.

  She tapped her chest impatiently. “Bri. My name. Like the cheese but without the e. Call me Bri.”

  She was about to give up when a light seemed to come on behind the boy’s eyes.

  “Bri.” He said it slowly like something new to be savoured. “Bri . . . Bri . . . Bri . . .”

  “Yeah, okay, okay. Don’t wear it out. So what’s your name?” She tapped herself on the chest again. “Bri.” She leaned forward and lightly tapped his chest. “And you are. . . ?”

  She watched his face, looking in vain for signs that something was going on in there. Then it came. “Will,” he said. “William Harry Clarkson.”

  “William Harry? Really? I’ll bet someone’s parents were into the royal family. Never mind. We can’t all be perfect. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Will.”

  Bri held out her hand and took his, shaking it up and down. The boy seemed a little bemused at first, but then gripped her hand back and started to pump it. Faster and faster until it felt that her arm was going to work loose from its socket. The boy began to chuckle and, before she knew it, they were both hooting with laughter.

  It was only the fresh twinges of pain in her head that brought her out of the laughing fit. As her giggles receded, she rescued her hand from his.

  “Well,” she said, “that was unexpected. I didn’t think I’d ever laugh again, even if it was a little on the hysterical side.” She glanced at the boy. All trace of humour had left his face. He was looking at her intently. “What?”

  “Dogs,” said Will. “Nasty dogs. Bri made them go away.”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I? But don’t ask me how as I have no idea. And it makes my head hurt even to think about it.” She stood carefully, afraid the world would start to tilt again, but it held steady. “Come on. We need to get out of here. I don’t feel safe. Whoever took my bike might be coming back. Put your jacket on while I get ready.”

  Bri retrieved her backpack from the hallway; it still contained a few bars of chocolate. She added the tin opener she’d found to the one she already carried, and the litre-bottle of water from the kitchen. The bottle made the material bulge and would make the straps dig into her shoulders, but she felt relieved to have it. She cut strips from the cotton sheet and folded them away into a side pocket to keep them clean.

  Will had managed to don the jacket and zip it up without her help. He stood waiting, favouring his right leg so that he leaned a little to one side.

  “Yeah,” she said, “that’s going to be sore. It can’t be helped. We can’t stay here. Right, let’s get going. Oh. Better have a pee first. Do you need to go?”

  So close to leaving, Bri didn’t have the patience to wait for Will’s penny to drop. She grabbed his hand.

  “Come on. I’m sure you can squeeze one out.”

  She made him wait on the landing while she did her business. She didn’t expect the flush to work, but tried it anyway. To her surprise, water swooshed into the bowl, but the sound of the cistern refilling was conspicuous by its absence. She lifted the toilet seat and ushered Will in. She unzipped his jacket and untied the drawstring waist of the jogging bot
toms.

  “There,” she said. “Pee. Then wait on the landing for me to tie you back up. They’ll fall down otherwise. I’m going to find a coat.”

  Bri had been warm enough on her journey from Cornwall, at least until it had begun to snow, in just a tee-shirt and hoodie, the exertion of pedalling performing the job of extra layers. Now that she would be travelling by foot, she needed something warmer.

  She went back into the main bedroom. Again her eyes were drawn to the bed and the thrown-back bedclothes, and she once more felt troubled without knowing why.

  Inside a large wardrobe she found a tangle of empty hangers, as though the owner had packed in a hurry. On the floor of the wardrobe, crumpled into a heap with other old clothes, she discovered an olive-green padded anorak. It was grubby and smelled like old shoes. The sleeves were torn in a couple of places and stuffing bulged out like loft-lagging.

  “This is no time to be fashion-conscious,” she muttered, shrugging the anorak on. It was too big for her and the zip was broken, but it also had popper fastenings, most of which still worked. They would help keep the worst of the wind and rain out.

  She gave one last, disturbed glance towards the bed, and went back onto the landing where Will was waiting, jogging bottoms puddled around his shins. She took the opportunity to examine the dressing on his calf. A faint line had appeared in the centre of the torn sheet as though inscribed by a red biro running out of ink, but the dressing still covered the cut and should keep it clean.

  Bri nodded and allowed a small flush of self-satisfaction to bloom in her chest.

  “Good job!” she said.

  “Good job!” echoed Will, grinning in the goofy way she was beginning to find endearing.

  A few moments later, they stepped out into the street.